258 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[Feb. 12, 1910. 
said that rabbits could get no food for a week. 
I hope that the physician and not the forest war¬ 
den is right. Charles Lose. 
The Last Black Duck. 
The long blue shadows were stretching across 
the dazzling whiteness of the snow, settling into 
every path and foot track. The last of any 
tenderness the winter day had held was turning 
into the purple of the horizon-sky which melted 
through a span of cold red to 1 a hard, brilliant 
zenith. As I turned, before going in to the fire¬ 
side to watch the masses of new white ice 
hurrying down the river with the ebb, I saw 
four black ducks swimming up against the north¬ 
west wind, their dark backs conspicuous amid 
the ice and dancing water that was resplendent 
in the rays of the setting sun. 
The great fields of ice and the strong ebb 
made the river smooth in spite of the cutting 
wind, and as I again turned to go, the snow 
creaking under my feet, I resolved to make a 
determined effort to outwit those ducks. Gun, 
shell belt and glasses were had in a moment and 
I was plunging down the steep hillside, the snow 
spurting at every leap. 
From the hilltop the river and the ice spread 
out like a map, a checkerboard of the elements, 
a maze understood, but from the beach how dif¬ 
ferent ! Somewhere out in that tangle of re 
lentlessly moving ice were the ducks, I knew, 
ready to bolt through the air and disappear at 
the slightest hint of danger or carelessness on 
my part. The ice was going past almost as fast 
as one could walk, pushing and crowding, lat- 
tling and jingling along the shores, the great 
piled-up floes in the channel moving in silent 
dignity, the broken, heaped-together hummocks 
flushed with pink of the sunset, unshaken by 
the waves that lapped their sides. A big floe 
was bearing down on me, pushing the little 
cakes together and grinding along the edges of 
the cove ice, making me hurry desperately to 
get out and away before it shut me in. Not to 
beat it meant a long wait and a long detour 
an d_no ducks. I was in the nick of time, the 
long, narrow canvas boat racing away as I 
jumped on my oars, in a moment leaving the 
home cove and the pursuing ice floe behind. 
Again the scene changed. Clear of shore and its 
noise of beating, cracking ice all was silence 
and peace, only the creak of oar locks and lisp 
of icy water kept me company as I sped away 
before wind and tide. December ice is the ice 
to fight; it is tough and sharp and grows, 
clutching the water with fang-like fingers, even 
as you break it; it is aggressive and limitless; 
about it none of the soft, retreating spirit of 
the ice of spring. 
Soon I saw the ducks, four specks in a big 
open space. I drew up behind a floe and pre¬ 
pared for action. First I pulled some cakes of 
ice over the boat, then adjusted the underwater 
paddles, stowed away my oars and lay flat on 
my back to paddle. Overhead the stars were 
showing brightly, here and there, as the sun 
dropped lower, and the moon, two days of the 
full, looked out in silvery paleness from the 
eastern sky. My boat, less than three feet 
wide and only showing six inches above the 
water, was not only painted to look like ice, but 
was coated with ice from the water that had 
splashed on her and was loaded with small floes 
withal. Steadily the ducks looked bigger until 
I could see them plainly without the glasses as 
they lightly breasted the waves as they headed 
up wind and quarteringly toward me. A train 
came along, its steam billowing up, untouched 
by the cold air, the rails ringing with the frost. 
While the train was passing I ceased paddling, 
simply holding the boat steady. The train gone 
and the ducks settled down, I again pushed on, 
slower and slower as I drew near. The sun 
glinted on their bills and I could see the gray 
patch on their cheeks—my time had come. 
Quickly rising and swinging the big gun with 
all my strength, the ducks beat me by yards. 
With a lisping quack, quack, of one of the 
drakes their silver-lined wings flashed as they 
leaped like bomb shells straight upward. 
Swift as they were, the shot was swifter, and 
one of them came slanting back with a tumb¬ 
ling splash into' the water. The second barrel 
was a clean miss and I watched the three bore 
their way through the wind until I could see 
them no more. But one was mine. Its sleek 
warm body lay on my coat, a bit of wild nature, 
the very essence of all this vast cold, this ice 
and water and hard, clear sky. 
All the creature comforts that the race of 
man must toil and struggle for the wild duck 
has as nature’s gift — its beautiful coat of 
feathers, impervious alike to tropic rains and 
northern snow, to wind and ice; its wonderful 
wings that carry it through the sky and across 
continents, its folding paddle-like feet that send 
it scudding over the water or diving under¬ 
neath, its bill that can strain and puddle from 
the water everything it needs. The mystery of 
life seems hidden in its bright brown eyes. 
Two days later the river was closed. The 
cold had won in its struggle with the tides. 
Julian Burroughs. 
Disposition of License Money. 
Algona, Iowa, Feb. 2. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: At the last session of the Iowa gen¬ 
eral assembly a gun license law was passed. It 
was thought at the time by the “powers that be ’ 
that a license of one dollar each for resident 
shooters and ten dollars each for non-resident 
shooters would bring into the State treasury 
about $10,000, and that that money could be used 
for the protection of game. According to the 
press of the State there has been paid for 
licenses over $100,000. That money is now in 
the State treasury and the great men of the 
State do not know what to do with the money. 
I wrote to the Governor and also to the fish 
commission and asked them to stock the State 
with game, as the shooters had paid in the 
money and they ought to have the benefit of 
it. Nothing has as yet been done. 
It seems to be a case of having too much 
money. The authorities act as though the shoot¬ 
ers of the State had no rights in the matter. I 
wrote to the State Press and suggested that the 
State buy several thousand Mongolian pheasants 
and Hungarian partridges, also about 5,000 
whitetail deer and place them in the different 
counties and protect them for five or ten years. 
There is plenty of money to do the work with 
and the shooters of the State want something 
done. 
I am receiving letters from all parts of the 
State asking if there is no way in which this 
money can be used to stock the State with 
game. It would be my idea to have the shoot¬ 
ers write to the authorities and demand that 
something be done. We have paid in our money 
for the work. Now let it be done and done 
well. The shooters do not object to the license 
law, but they want the money to go where it 
belongs. I am inclined to think that 100,000 
shooters will be heard from next fall unless 
there is some man made to do some work. 
There is no reason why we cannot have plenty 
of game. John G. Smith. 
Mr. Roosevelt’s African Expedition. 
Theodore Roosevelt has reported to the Sec¬ 
retary of the Smithsonian Institution that the 
expedition under his charge has finished its work 
in British East Africa and is about to leave for 
Uganda. Mr. Roosevelt is expected to reach 
Khartoum March 1. Writing from Nairobi 
under date of Dec. 15, 1909, he enumerates the 
collections made as: 
Mammals, large, in salt. 550 
Mammals, small, in salt. 3,379 
Birds . 2,784 
Reptiles and batrachians, about. 1,500 
Fresh water and marine fishes, about.... 250 
Total vertebrates . 8,463 
Besides these there have been collected a large 
number of mollusks and other invertebrates, 
several thousand plants, a certain amount of 
anthropological material, and about 2,000 photo¬ 
graphs. There have also been sent on about 
150 skulls of large mammals, picked up on the 
field, but without skins. It has recently been 
learned that Mr. Roosevelt has killed two speci¬ 
mens of the very rare white rhinoceros, an adult 
female and calf. 
Of the collections above enumerated only a 
small portion has as yet reached the institution. 
A Deadly Aim. 
The real origin of the greatest fake hero 
story ever told has come to light in a scrap 
book owned by an old resident of Washington. 
A group of Revolutionary heroes were stand¬ 
ing before an old bar in Washington, and from 
the lips of each there fell wondrous stories of 
what he had done in the shock of battle or the 
frenzy of the charge. Finally one old fellow 
with long, white whiskers remarked: 
“I was personally acquainted with George 
Washington. I was lying behind the breast¬ 
works one day, pumping lead into the Britishers, 
when I heard the patter of a horse’s hoofs be¬ 
hind me. Then came a voice: 
“ ‘Hi, there, you with the deadly aim! Look 
here a moment.’ 
“I looked around and saluted, recognizing 
Gen. Washington, and he said: 
“ ‘What’s your name?’ 
“ ‘Hogan,’ I said. 
“ ‘Your first name?’ 
“ ‘Pat, sir—Pat Hogan.’ 
“‘Well, Pat,’ he said, ‘go home. You’re 
killing too many men.’ 
“ ‘I think I’d' better get a few more, General,’ 
I said, kind of apologetic. 
“ ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’ve killed too many. It’s 
slaughter. And, Pat, don’t call me General; 
call me George.’ ’’—Washington Post. 
