Give the Boy a Chance. 
I was twelve years old when my father 
allowed me to take his 16-gauge Haymarket- 
made gun out all alone. It was in the days of 
the muzzleloader. I had been educated in field 
etiquette ever since I could toddle. In fact, 
when too small to ford the streams, I can re¬ 
member my father carrying me pic-a-back over 
them, and it was the delight of my immature 
years to retrieve the game. 
Father used to take me along in order to 
familiarize me with the use of.firearms. The 
•trt—I place considerable accent on “the art,” 
of carrying, loading, handling he so carefully 
drilled into me that it became a part of my 
makeup. I he amount of pleasure a healthy 
boy derives from anticipation is only limited 
by his appetite and adaptability to his sur¬ 
roundings. 
I here are a great many of the older boys 
in the same boat. I imagine, else why do so 
many climb to the sanctity of their dens, to 
gingerly waft the fly-rod back and forth over 
sotne imaginary stream, during the close sea¬ 
son, keeping meanwhile a sharp lookout for 
any interruption, which, if it occurs, is referred 
to the fact that they were examining the wrap¬ 
pings. How is that, Amigo; were you ever 
caught like that and made to feel like a setter 
dog who had been caught drawing a point on 
sparrows? 
I stayed up rather late the night before, pack¬ 
ing my decoys and lunch, and giving a few final 
rubs to my stub-and-twist barrels, for we used 
to brown our barrels those times, and very 
pretty they looked, too; besides, they were less 
conspicuous in the sunlight. The decoys were 
golden plover, the finest decoys I ever saw. 
They hang in festoons now, in my den, and like 
the buffalo, they are things of the past, but they 
speak volumes to one who has seen and there¬ 
fore knows. I take them down occasionally 
and examine the shot holes and recall the shots 
that the old muzzleloader and I made, when 
we were young—when we were young, remem¬ 
ber; but the old Glass-house grounds, the 
Three Square Pond—Maple Island Pond- 
Great and Bound Creek ponds and the Great 
Island ponds have been all drained away and 
the p'antive cry of the plover, the wary note 
of the yellow-leg and the call of the curlew echo 
no more over miles and miles of beautiful 
meadows where once they revelled in countless 
thousands. 
It was late in September and the black-grass 
crop had long been harvested—I was up at 
2 a. m., and had the old coffee-pot boiling 
without waking any of the household. The 
night hung dark over all. and the stars shone 
like diamonds in the sky as I shouldered my 
sack of decoys and started for my duck boat, 
rocking gracefully on the gentle swells of the 
outgoing tide two miles and a half away. 
Crickets chirruped and occasionally a night 
hawk sailed over calling his shrill “peent” be¬ 
fore taking his usual earthward tumble. 
There are some who would call this lone¬ 
some, but I never found it so. I always had 
the night wind, the soughing of the tide, the 
gentle ripple of the water under the prow of the 
boat, and the thousand and one night sounds 
for company. Everything lay in inky darkness 
at the float where the snug little duck boat 
rode like a feather, but I knew every inch of 
the way and had her out in the channel in a 
minute. 
She was fitted with rowlocks, but I never 
used them—I ran a nine-foot spruce oar out 
of the hole in the stern and sculled or punted 
to my favorite grounds. The scull-hole was 
leather-lined and the only noise to be heard 
was the ripple of water under the prow as I 
steadily forged the light craft through the flood. 
My favorite grounds were four miles away 
and I generally reached them just as the heavy 
blackness lightened along the horizon, where 
an hour or so later the sun would rise. The 
boat was pulled ashore and made fast and then 
there was a half mile of tramping through 
meadow grass and water and the old Three- 
Square was reached. 
1 he decoys were immediately set out and 
then I waited for daylight. An excellent op¬ 
portunity is offered the student of nature if he 
be of an observant disposition and an early 
riser and hie himself away to the meadows to 
await the coming of day. PI ere he may see 
the larva of the dragon fly develop and also 
see how they devour the horseflies and mos¬ 
quitoes. I have watched them for hours at a 
time. They sidle up to the victim almost im¬ 
perceptibly and finally grip him, then deliber¬ 
ately bite through the neck, allowing the head 
to fall, while they make their repast on the con¬ 
tents of the thorax. Another interesting feature 
was a colony of muskrats. I have watched them 
gamboling for half a day—my blind was an old 
muskrat house with brush shoved down around 
the edges. In the spring and summer—for no¬ 
body thought of the perniciousness of shoot¬ 
ing them—it amused me a great deal to watch 
the old black duck with her ducklings sporting 
in the water. 
She always fought shy of the muskrat local¬ 
ity. It was great fun to see a little fledgling 
climb on his mother’s back and take a ride. 
Nobodv would think of shooting the mother 
away from her fledglings. In the summer 
time any quantity of soft-shelled crabs could be 
picked up along the sedge of the pond. 
The first suggestion of daybreak was the 
dawn breeze—first a mere sighing, then a gentle 
undulation of the sedge, then a ruffling of the 
water, creating a miniature surf around the foot 
of the blind—and then the low soughing that 
continued until n a. m. 
The skyline had been pink for a half hour, 
the fleecy clouds floating lightly in the clear 
air—taking their coloring from the rising sun. 
Millions of dewdrops sparkled on the waving 
grass and finally the sun’s rays shot across 
the level meadows like so many arrows. With 
the sunlight came the swallows—countless 
hordes, pitching and sailing, this way then that 
'—now lightly touching the water, again fanning 
my face with their wings as they sailed close 
over the blind. Many a one have I intercepted 
by holding up a piece of brush just as he passed 
over, and after smoothing his head, allow the 
frightened little chap to flit away faster than he 
came. 
Sheets of foam dashed high in air half a mile 
away, where the waves pounded the mossy 
banks of the bay—resembling snow-drifts, just 
visible over the tops of the meadow grass. 
White-winged yachts heeling over to the breeze 
sped down the bay, looking like sea gulls. Sud¬ 
denly the air was filled with music—the flute of 
the yellowleg coming down the wind. On they 
came—away out over the bay, only a speck in 
the sky, but I knew that in a few seconds the 
surface of the water would be alive with color. 
Answering the call, in less time than it takes 
to tell it, twenty yellowlegs hurtled by down 
wind. Holding my fire, for the right moment 
had not arrived, I uttered a couple of low 
flutes, which they heard—for on reaching the 
lower end of the pond, they came back slowly 
against the wind, pitching and plunging, with 
legs dangling preparatory to alighting. The 
two flutes were to allay anything suspicious 
which they imagined they saw in the decoys, 
such as too many with their tails to the wind, 
or some that were too shiny, or any of the 
hundred and one things that birds sec and men 
do not. Just as they bunched over the decoys, 
three feet up. I fired my right, getting six down, 
and as two crossed flight at the end of the 
pond, the left dropped both. I called, reload¬ 
ing meanwhile, and as they got over their 
fright and same sailing along on the far side of 
the pond, I made a long shot with the right, 
getting two and a straggler with the left. 
On the Tremley grounds—a bunch of fifteen 
yellowlegs came in when I had the 16-gauge 
with me. I got four with the right and three 
with the left. Calling and reloading, I bagged 
the entire fifteen in five shots. Two gunners 
hearing the continuous fusilade, came over 
from the river. One of them asked. “What’d 
y’u git, sonny?” I showed him the birds, 
fifteen yellowlegs in prime condition—as fine 
a bunch of birds as any man would care to 
carry home. The inquirer looked long and 
fondly at them, and finally his hand stole into 
his pocket as he asked what I intended doing 
with them. I told him “Eat them.” whereupon 
he said, “What, the whole fifteen?” "No. but 
I never sell anything I kill,” He looked at 
me—kindly, I thought—and then, well, maybe he 
had a boy at home or he had a vision of his 
own boyhood, for he laid his hand on my head 
and said, “All right, son. I guess I’ll go along.” 
I liked that man right there, and I offered 
him the birds as a gift. The look came back 
into his eyes again, but he thanked me and said 
he guessed he d “try to get some himself across 
the river.” I shot on those grounds for fifteen 
years, but I never met him again. I liked him 
a lot. 
