A Legend of Prairie Creek. 
j Along the bottom lands of Prairie Creek, some 
Ip or twelve miles north of Clarks, Nebraska, 
me cattails had faded to a rusty brown, save 
l here the unbridled winds had torn them 
I [sunder and sent their cottony filaments flying* 
i all directions, and shades of gray were creep- 
( fig everywhere over the thin stretches of rice, of 
I ! nartweed and belated flags. The last seedless 
jisk of the hardiest sunflower had lowered its 
[ittling husks nearer to the ground, while the 
hen northwest wind was whistling dolefully 
firough the ragweed and over the frowsy 
i ;airies when, in an old ramshackle farm wagon, 
am Richmond, myself and several kindred 
writs were jogging along the old buffalo trail 
1 the south shores of that famous old stream. 
1 the crossing of every swale, from one to a 
ore of jack snipe would flush from under the 
Orse’s feet and dart away out over the prairie 
ud around back of us where they would again 
ttle down to their boring for food in the 
lucky loam. Long, straggling myriads of yel- 
wlegs would sound their tinkling trumpets and 
iream away from every stretch of back water 
either side of the creek, while golden plover, 
big, crescent-shaped flocks, swept over the 
Ijwlands. Sandpipers of four or five varieties 
■fere whisking here and there and the air was 
rver void of their fretful pipings. 
It was plain enough to any old wildfowler or 
tamper of the sloughs that these birds had sel- 
om been shot at or molested, for they were 
fere in countless numbers and as tame as the 
omestic fowl. Big blue cranes, too, flapped 
Izify from sandy points and small herons and 
lown bitterns hardly took the trouble to leave 
feir stations along the low shores as we passed 
amost within reach of the driver’s gad. 
/The frosts had been early that fall in the 
plar breeding grounds of the wildfowl, the 
’iaders and the geese, and Sam said the flight 
Id been on for more than a week, and on notic- 
ig a long dotted line coming in over the hills, 
1 said that within an hour the evening flight 
l^om the fields and the river would begin and 
fat he would show me the sight of my whole 
ticking career. And he did. 
[We were several miles from the spot Sam 
Id chosen for our camping ground and the 
;;adows from the sandhills were reaching out. 
’hen the birds began to come in to these ex¬ 
tensive nocturnal feeding and roosting grounds 
fong the creek it was not in scattered flocks, 
:ch as you yet occasionally see in this same 
igion, but in companies, regiments, brigades, 
tousands of them, until the eye grew tired trac¬ 
es the ceaseless march. There were more ducks 
i; sight in the after glow on that golden October 
tternoon to one sweep of the eye around the 
fmament than the young hunter of to-day will 
■St in all the rest of his life. 
“The most of these ducks,” said Sam, “are 
-orthern birds that have been in here for a 
jjek past and have learned that these Prairie 
( eek bottoms are a sanctuary that they cannot 
find anywhere along the Platte or among the 
sandhill lakes. Few hunters ever come up here 
to hunt because they can kill all the birds they 
want without the expense and trouble of this 
long drive. The birds seem to know it and they 
come here *to rest at night by millions. The 
sight to-morrow morning, when the birds begin 
to leave for the big cornfields and sloughs again, 
will be just as interesting and just as thrilling 
as it is in the evening. Just look there! Did 
you ever seen any ducks before, Sandy?” and 
Sam pointed off to the north, where a vast army 
of wildfowl, many of them undoubtedly just in 
from the north, came gliding into that fabled 
valley. 
There were other birds there besides the ducks, 
for the vault above was streaked with white and 
speckled-front geese and dotted with Canadas, 
and with the clamorous cacklings of the former 
and the sonorous “Auh-unk! unk! unk! auh-unk- 
ing” of the latter. You may guess, indeed, what 
an orchestra they made for us. 
After the sun had set and the scene was 
flooded with amber light we saw scores of jack 
snipe pitching here and there, mingled with kil- 
deer, plover and yellowlegs, and we were all so 
excited that it was hard to retain our seats in 
the wagon. Long after night had closed in and 
while we were busy pitching our tents by the 
light of the lanterns, we could still hear the 
geese and ducks passing over, a low satisfied 
cackling or the rustle of hosts of wings. 
In the morning this wondrous and thrilling 
scene was repeated, only it did not continue as 
long, nor did there seem to be so many birds 
in motion at one time. Thousands, it is pre¬ 
sumed, left their roost long before the first pink 
and pearl of approaching day tinged the east 
and were miles and miles away in the big corn¬ 
fields or sloughs while we still slept. By 8 
o’clock there were but few ducks to be seen in 
the air, while the black dots specking the back¬ 
water were few and far between. 
Such were the morning and evening flights of 
the wildfowl, not only in this little valley of 
Prairie Creek, but all over the untenanted re¬ 
gions of the State twenty years or so ago, and 
while it continued for a decade or so after it 
has at last about petered out. 
Not only was there no morning or evening 
flight along the Platte last fall, but there were 
few ducks at any time, and the old Platters are 
unanimous in declaring that it was the poorest 
autumn along the river since the days when the 
rumbling of the prairie schooners along the old 
Oregon trail started the birds in numbers beyond 
conception from every water hole along the 
route. 
At Clarks there were not fifty birds killed by 
all the shooters who assembled there, and 1 at 
Chapman, so a returning gunner told me, but 
fifteen birds fell to the guns of the sportsmen. 
What birds did come in there last autumn to 
the rivers, lakes and marshes left at the first 
intimation of a cold snap. 
But to return to our morning and evening 
flight. Back in a cleared spot among the willows 
stood our tents which, in the darkness of night, 
gleamed out like snow banks, excepting when lit 
up by the huge pile of driftwood scattered about 
which blazed high. I can close my eyes even 
now and see the glare from our camp-fire reach¬ 
ing out over the river until the stripped cotton¬ 
woods on the opposite bank stretched forth their 
skeleton arms as if to embrace our glowing 
bivouac. Often by the camp-fire light, too, have 
I seen the white collars on the necks of the old 
Canadas drifting through the night above and 
plainly distinguished the glossy green heads of 
the mallards as they barely swept the willow 
tops. 
Before darkness had enveloped the water- 
streaked valley the evening flight was on. On 
the blue of the heavens the light from the sunken 
sun is splintered into millions of fragments, with 
everything above the distant hills in clear out¬ 
line, while over all the vale below rested that 
pallid glow that intensified the brilliant colors 
in the air and threw a creepy gloom over the 
shaded nooks and crannies. Over this stage 
would pour that incalculable army of the winged 
hosts that twenty years ago made the heart of 
the most stoical sportsman leap. 
• Sandy Griswold. 
The Small Bore. 
Albany, Ore., June 15.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: Much has been said about how small- 
bores do their work and I wish to add my testi¬ 
mony to the efficiency of the small-bore. 
I was born here in the year of our Lord, 
1858, when the ducks and geese were here by the 
millions, and as soon as I was big enough to 
shoulder the old musket and carry a few news¬ 
papers along for wadding, I began to hunt. 
After the musket came the double barrel muzzle- 
loaders. After them came the single barrel 
breechloaders, twelve-gauge, and then the twelve- 
gauge double barrel breechloaders of different 
makes. 
I finally decided to have a sixteen-gauge gun 
made to order, and I ordered it with a two-inch 
drop, as I had been experimenting. Oddly 
enough the manufacturers telegraphed me to 
know if the order was not a mistake. They 
said they had never made any straight stocks 
before. They have made plenty since. I was 
the first man they ever made a straight stock 
for. 
I had more fun with that little gun than any 
arm I ever owned. I used it on ducks and geese 
just as I did my twelve-gauge and killed just 
as many and just as far. Later when the China 
pheasants were turned loose here and got plen¬ 
tiful, so that we were allowed to shoot them, I 
then used it on them, and I have made longer 
runs on them with the sixteen-gauge than I ever 
did with my twelve-bore. 
I think there is no gun so nice for game as 
a right good sixteen-gauge. I have a fine double 
twelve-gauge for trapshooting and it is a good 
one. My next gun for game will be a nice little 
twenty-gauge. P. J. Baltimore. 
