FOREST AND S T R E A M 
1235 
ON AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY 
A GOODLY BAG OF DUCKS, A STRAY PARTRIDGE AND A 
COMFORTABLE CAMP MAKE UP THE JOY OF LIVING 
S OMEWHERE not far away I could hear 
the contented quacking of ducks, but it was 
too dark to make out anything. Even the 
bow of the canoe merged indistinctly into the 
gray, all covering mist which hid everything, 
making of the before-dawn darkness an ashen 
gray shroud. The ducks were there, anyway that 
was one comfort, and in all probability would 
remain until it lightened up enough for shoot¬ 
ing. So I sat close, glad of the extra sweater 
under the hunting coat, though even that could 
not keep out the penetrating chill of the mist. 
An hour previous the insistent call of the 
alarm clock had warned me that if I wanted 
the early morning shooting I would have to 
hustle. Lighting the lantern hanging at the tent 
door I hurriedly dressed, stirred up the smould¬ 
ering embers into a faint blaze and with the 
addition of birch as dry as tinder soon had a 
fire going over which I cooked my frugal break¬ 
fast of bacon, eggs and coffee. Then, after 
seeing that the fire was well covered, and carry¬ 
ing the heavy repeater and plenty of shells, I 
slid the little canoe into the water, climbed in 
and started off across the lake for my blind. 
Not a breath of air was stirring, the reflec¬ 
tion of the stars was as clear cut in the black 
sheen of the water as were they themselves. 
Once away from the shore I was as much alone 
By Frederick L. Coe. 
as though in some trackless wilderness, and 
coupled with this loneliness came a strange, 
exultant sensation of being the master of this 
strange world whose only evidence of life was 
the deep-toned frog chorus from the distant 
marshes. But the first faint signs of the ap¬ 
proaching dawn warned me that I must hurry. 
Heading due north from the camp I knew 
would bring me to the mouth of the river, and 
once there the sentinel tamarack just behind my 
blind could be seen. The North Star furnished 
me an easy guide for my course. The three- 
mile paddle was accomplished in record time, 
as I was cold and let myself out to the limit, 
sending the light canoe surging along. 
As I neared the northern edge of the lake— 
here rather swampy—I found a heavy, impene¬ 
trable mist which blanketed the shore from 
sight. It was impossible to distinguish objects 
a dozen feet away. I rested on my paddle, 
letting the canoe run, and in so doing became 
conscious of the faint swishing of lily pads 
being forced aside. That gave me an idea. 
Directly at the mouth of the river I knew the 
water to be free from weeds, and if I could 
once locate that channel I was certain that, 
aided by my flash light, I could reach my 
station. 
It was blind work, but I made it, and once in 
near the shore found to my great satisfaction 
that the mist only extended a few yards above 
the water, the trees showing in darker blurs 
against the sky. The tamarack loomed up, and 
the canoe was soon snugly hidden in the berth 
prepared for it behind a clump of half sub¬ 
merged bushes. Then I made myself as com¬ 
fortable as possible under the conditions and 
waited for dawn. 
The latter part of October in Connecticut 
isn’t any too warm and balmy at that time of 
day—or night—close to the water, and I 
fervently wished that I had brought along that 
pair of heavy army blankets back in the tent. 
But suddenly the cold and discomfort was for¬ 
gotten when I heard the unmistakable quacking 
of ducks. They had evidently been there all 
the time and my approach had not alarme 1 
them. 
Never had 1 known the time to drag so—with ' 
one exception, when forced to spend the night 
in the Everglades .due to the over indulgence 
of my trusty guide in the corn whiskey locally 
known as “forty rod” as a tribute to its powers, 
and thus became confused in the many turnings 
and hopelessly lost. There being no firm ground 
we stayed in the punt, he sleeping the sleep of 
the just—stewed—while I fought the myriads 
of mosquitoes and other flying and crawling 
