1236 
pests, and imagined cotton-mouth moccasins 
climbing into the boat. Thus I passed the time, 
thinking of tiiat other experience of watchful 
waiting, and before I realized it the dawn had 
come. 
The mist still held us prisoners in its opaque 
wall, but its brightening gave promise of a 
speedy release, together with the breeze which 
always precedes sunrise. In a few minutes the 
mist was a thing of the past, the last shreds 
drifting away like so many spiders’ webs. 
Then I saw the ducks, six mallards, not over 
thirty yards distant. They saw me at about the 
same time, rose with a clatter and were off as 
I swung up the gun, firing once—twice—again, 
as fast as I could shoot, and then twice more 
on the cripples. As I lowered the gun, the hot 
barrel scorching my fingers, and crammed more 
shells into the magazine, there were three ducks 
floating peacefully just outside of the lily pads. 
Seeing that the wind was inshore I did not at 
once go after them, but waited in hopes of 
others dropping in, as this section was a noted 
feeding place. 
A half hour passed and though several flocks 
were visible down the lake, none came in range. 
I had started out to pick up my game when a 
lone black duck came past, flying fast and high 
and caught just enough of the fours to come 
down on a long slant towards the thick brush. 
Here I did some quick shooting. Knowing that 
once in that tangle of brush if a spark of life 
remained he was a gone duck to me, I com¬ 
menced to shoot as fast as I could work the 
lever. He was just disappearing as the third 
shot was fired and some of them, at least must 
have found their mark as it was an exceedingly 
dead duck that I picked up. As an old back¬ 
woodsman once told me: “ ’F ye got any daoubt 
whatsumever abaout yer game bein’ dead—keep 
right on a-shootin’.” Good logic, too. 
The sun was well up by now and the promise 
of a warm, breathless fall day was being ful¬ 
filled. The breeze had dropped and the surface 
of the lake was as smooth as glass. An almost 
imperceptible haze marked it as that best of all 
times, an Indian summer day, when nature seems 
to be evening up for the vicissitudes of this many 
sided New England climate by showing what she 
can do by creating a perfect day. 
Heading up the river I paddled as quietly as 
possible in the hope of coming upon a few ducks 
feeding in the little bayous and inlets. I real¬ 
ized that it was too late for the real river shoot¬ 
ing, as the ducks had probably left for the lake 
by now, but was relying on the chance of a 
stray one. Twice I did raise a single, but each 
time it got up out of range. Thus all the damage 
sustained was by the trees bordering the river, 
though I did manage to loosen a few feathers 
on one which idly floated down to the water. 
The duck kept right on his way. 
Then came the yearning to get into the brush 
and see if I couldn’t get just one partridge. I 
landed, made fast the canoe and plunged into the 
upland of thick birches, a few scattered white 
pines adding their dark green to the general color 
scheme of white. 
I had hardly entered the cover before with a 
whirr and a roar out crashed a huge partridge 
and went off through the brush untouched by 
a couple of futile charges I sent after him. 
It may be well to add that a full choke gun 
loaded with fours is not exactly the proper com¬ 
bination for close brush work. However, 1 
marked where the bird was headed and went 
after him just as though I really expected to 
get him. After circling around for some time 
I got him up again and—notwithstanding the 
FOREST AND STREAM 
general superstition that a partridge will not fly 
across water—he swung over the river, presenting 
an ideal shot. I waited—this I am very proud f 
—until he was well away and straightened out 
in his flight before firing, dwelling long on the 
aim, against all ethics of brush shooting. The 
partridge crumpled up in mid air as though 
struck by lightning, as well he might as I later 
found by the number of those big shot in him, 
and dropped on the far bank. 
Arriving at the camp after an uneventful pad¬ 
dle down the river I found my brother waiting 
for me, and about famished after the ordeal of 
the trip up from New York. Anyone who has 
had the the misfortune to travel on the Shepaug 
Division which has been characterized as not a 
railroad, but a disease—will understand the 
above reference. Those who haven’t—but why 
speak of unpleasant things? Rather let us par- 
T HERE was a time back in black powder 
days when a shot gun could not confine 
its pellets to too close a circle at extreme 
ranges. It was the premier talking point of both 
the gun and its owner who shot at game “sit¬ 
ting,” religiously visited the annual turkey shoot, 
and with a chip delicately balanced on his 
shoulder attended the three hundred sixty-four 
post-mortems of that shoot till the ninth com¬ 
mandment blushed as healthfully as an autumn 
sunset. Now that October, with the shot gun 
prominently emblazoned on its coat-of-arms, is 
fully upon us, it is quite pertinent and natural 
to ask whether in these days there is a legitimate 
demand for a longer range gun in each of the 
gauges. 
There can be- no doubt but that the 12 and the 
20 gauges are the most popular sizes with Amer¬ 
ican sportsmen to-day and in order to measure 
the different doses of salt necessary to take with 
the stories of wonderful patterns which are ever 
on the wing there has been sought the advice 
of authority personified in a friend, the super¬ 
intendent of a factory turning out one of the 
oldest and most popular shot guns in America. 
In the Good Old Days of Black Powder. 
take, at least in spirit, of the feast we prepared. 
Shall I tell of the menu? Of how we argued 
whether to have partridge or fish—duck being 
out of the question owing to such short notice 
for preparation—and compromised by having 
both? How Phil, who can cook, first steamed 
the partridge and then fried in butter slices cut 
from the breast? How the fat perch sizzled in 
the bacon fat? Of the ash cakes made of corn 
meal, and of the real coffee, tasting as only 
coffee can taste that has been boiled over an 
open fire? Perhaps it is needless to add that 
we ate and ate until we could eat no more, and 
then, sitting under the great oaks fringing the 
shore idly watched the vista of lake and rolling 
country with old Mt. Prospect looming up 
vaguely in the background through the magic 
haze of Indian summer. Is it to be wondered 
at that we were contented, glad to be alive? 
This veteran gun builder and sportsman has 
seen many years of opening letters from gun 
cranks from all over the world, observed thou¬ 
sands of tests on paper targets, and used shot 
guns in the many game fields of America. From 
him it was ascertained that while we hear of 
many guns in 12-gauge that average 80 per cent, 
to 90 per cent, on the 30-inch circle at 40 yards, 
when tested out these same guns drop back to 
70 per cent, and it is a good gun that shoots 
73 per cent. Moreover, skillful barrel borers 
at present with 20-gauge tubes do not produce 
guns that run above 65 per cent, to 70 per cent. 
One would think, therefore, that some radical 
change, some revolution in boring, loading 01 
ammunition were necessary before the hearts of 
some were gladdened, for there is a demand for 
shot guns that would hold a trench against our 
army in Flanders. 
Already there is a rumored discovery made by 
a barrel borer in this country, who, by a scien¬ 
tific loading of the cartridge case, can make a 
12-gauge gun put 90 per cent, of its load in a 
30-inch circle at 50 yards. If the loading were 
practical and adopted by loading companies, 
where would the demand come from? Perhaps 
from England, where farmers anxiously awah 
the advent of a shot gun that will kill wood- 
pigeons at 100 yards, or from the users of shot 
guns in open places like the duck marsh and the 
prairie chicken country. The demand certainly 
would not come from the trapshooter, unless 
the 20-gauge were lifted to the efficiency the 12 
now has, for the 7^4 or 8-pound trap gun can 
be handled with absolute ease and there is the 
joy of seeing its 1% ounce of shot blow up a 
clay target as the %-ounce load never could. 
While there is no wish to restrict the art of 
gun-craft or the general advancement of science, 
from a sportsman’s point of view it is to be 
hoped that nothing may be discovered that would 
be more deadly on our feathered game than 
we now have. Assuredly, if anything beyond 
the present shot gun range is to be reached the 
rifle is indicated and American sportsmen may 
sit content in the thought that the marksman 
has but one pill to do it with for the shot gun 
in the hands of some is not always used on 
flying game. 
THE LON.G RANGE SHOT GUN 
IS THERE A REAL NECESSITY FOR 
SUCH A WEAPON IN AMERICA? 
By Fred Copeland. 
