F ORES T A N I) S T R E A M 
587 
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Whirr! Whirr! The Air Seemed Full of Ducks 
S HOOTING wild ducks in the fresh-water 
marshes that border the shores of many 
of our inland lakes is grand sport when 
fowl are abundant, and to the lover of nature 
there is a peculiar charm in pursuing them in 
such localities that is lacking in many of their 
deep-water resorts. 
Scattered irregularly about, in the midst of the 
lusty growing mass of wild rice, blue flag, and 
the various growths which flourish here, are calm, 
still pools of open water often fringed with 
patches of pond lilies of rare beauty and size. 
The broad, raftlike leaves tempt many gor¬ 
geous dragon fly to alight arrd spread its gauzy 
wings in the warm autumn sunshine. Water 
spiders innumerable play at “hide and seek” 
among the lilypads, and we may also discover 
the gossamer spider in the act of launching his 
fairy web of spun silk from the tip of a tall 
rice stem. These modest little fellows have suc¬ 
cessfully solved the problem of aerial navigation, 
and the filmy sails of their glistening “white 
squadron” are spread to the light air which 
breathes from the south, and sail in the blue sky 
like tiny cloudlets. 
’Tis true, we are after ducks, but the surround¬ 
ings always add a charm to the pursuit of game, 
and fortunate is he who can observe and appreci¬ 
ate, even to a limited extent, this teeming insect 
life, as he cautiously pushes his light boat through 
the marsh in search of wildfowl. 
Silently we glide along the lanes of open water, 
which tread their devious paths along the reeds. 
What’s that? A guarded quack! quack! from the 
margin of an opening, whose still waters we see 
glistening just ahead, betrays the presence of 
ducks. 
Now is the time for a tenderfoot to have the 
“duck ague,” and even to an old hand the ex¬ 
perience is ever new, ever thrilling. 
We have all along moved stealthily, no careless 
crashing through the reeds; no jar of paddle lias 
disturbed the quiet. But now we must exercise 
the greatest caution, we must steal up to this 
little pool with the silence of a thought. 
Where is the man who has felt the keen excite¬ 
ment of such a moment that will ever forget it? 
As we near the spot a basking pickerel darts 
with a sudden rush from under the lilypads. Such 
is our nervous tension that it seems as though we 
had struck a whale, and a chill creeps down our 
spine. 
Hush-sh-sh ! Here we are! 
Now! A few vigorous strokes, deep, long, and 
strong, and our little craft, like a racer under the 
lash, springs forward into the open. 
Whirr! Whirr! Whirr-r-rrr! Right, left, all 
around us; the air seems alive with ducks. 
To drop paddle, seize gun and fire is the work 
. of an instant. 
How the echoes are flying in response to the 
bang! bang! of our salute, while clear and thrill¬ 
ing amid the dim there comes to our ears a 
sounding splash ! splash ! announcing the success¬ 
ful shots. 
This is not luck alone; no one may blunder 
through the marsh and kill game. It is the quick 
ear, the cautious approach, the thorough “know 
how,” coupled with perfect accord of brain, eye 
and finger, that instinctively presses the trigger 
at the right instant, that has won the prize. My 
word for it, that right and left, made so hand¬ 
somely in this lonely marsh, will serve memory 
with an incident to quicken the heart-beats for 
many a day to come. 
If we had decoys I should set them right out 
here, for this is evidently a favorite spot, with 
the ducks, as those numerous floating feathers, 
indicative of a leisurely toilet, will testify, and in 
due course, when satisfied that all danger is past, 
they will return by twos and threes, affording fine 
sport. Not having decoys, our best chance will 
be among the reeds at the head of the marsh, 
where it narrows out toward the lake. There we 
shall be apt to see every duck that comes in, and, 
if fortunate, by sundown we will have added 
largely to our score. 
Here is the place! You see, we are concealed 
from the eyes of any incoming birds, the sun is 
at our back, and right before us is spread a lovely 
picture. 
In front, directly across the marsh (here about 
forty yards in width), a heavily timbered ridge 
runs down to the lake shore, and in the full glow of 
changing foliage, blushing in the mellow sunlight 
which floods the scene, the effect is indescribable. 
High in the air, the light gondolas of the spiders 
are drifting, each bearing its tiny navigator, and 
while watching one little craft (that had become 
entangled through carelessly taking a lower 
course over the reeds) a huge shadow glides upon 
the water before us. 
We know that something with feathers is near 
by and “coming to a ready,” we wait an instant, 
only to see an immense blue heron sail over, not 
ten yards away. 
Well! He was surprised when he caught sight 
ot us. It is laughable to see one of these clumsy 
fellows when startled. They seemed to be all 
tangled up for a moment, head, legs, and wing.- 
are going like the sails of a windmill, as they 
make a ludicrous effort to get away. 
See that duck! Bang! Never touched him! 
What! By George, he’s down ! Well, well! 
Quick! Mark north, three blacks ! 
“Great Caesar! All there?” 
“Yes, all cleaned out!” 
Thus we spend the afternoon, killing some, 
nhissing others, taking no note of time as the 
golden hours slip by, until the hooting owls in 
the darkening woods on either side of the marsh 
tell us it is time to be moving out, and on our de¬ 
parture we can fancy their big broad wings are 
hovering over the scene in search of a possible 
cripple wherewith to regale themselves. 
I wonder if they enjoy hunting as much as we 
do? W. T. 
