528 
FOREST 
AND STREAM 
November, 1917 
MY FIFTY YEARS OF DUCK SHOOTING 
SPORTS BY FLOOD AND FIELD STAND OUT IN BOLD RELIEF IN THE 
PANORAMA OF THE ACTIVE LIFE OF A VETERAN DISCIPLE OF NIMROD 
By WIDGEON 
I T is a wild, tem¬ 
pestuous win¬ 
ter’s night, the 
rain and sleet beat 
furiously against 
the windows, 
while the house 
quivers under the 
force of the wind. 
As I sit in my 
comfortable Mor¬ 
ris chair, with the 
reading lamp at 
my elbow, and the 
glowing hickory 
logs at my feet, T 
think with pity of 
the sailors at sea, 
an.d the life 
guards struggling 
in the darkness 
through the whirl¬ 
ing sand and spin¬ 
drift along the 
Jersey coast. This 
thought of the 
coast, what a 
host of pleasant recollections it recalls. 
What a blessed thing is memory! Of all 
the many gifts of an all wise and benefi¬ 
cent Creator, the gift of memory I be¬ 
lieve to be the most precious. One may 
lose health, wealth and position; be de¬ 
prived of sight or the use of limbs; the 
infirmities of age may shut you in, but 
once having seen, once having enjoyed, 
the memory will remain while life and 
intellect lasts and can be recalled at will. 
LOSING my eyes, the full panorama of 
an active life passes before my vision. 
These pictures are indelibly photo¬ 
graphed on the' film of my mind, and as 
I have been a devoted disciple of Nimrod 
all my life, those pertaining to sports by 
flood and field, stand out in bold relief. 
As the reel unwinds, I see thrown upon 
the screen, in all the vivid colors of real¬ 
ity, my first trip to the beautiful bay of 
Barnegat, as a boy, more than fifty years 
ago. I see the myriads of wild fowl, the 
dancing sunlight on the waters, the silvery 
whitecaps, the decoying birds on curved 
wings and the gorgeous sunsets. The pic¬ 
ture fades and another appears. I see the 
startled rabbit burst from the thicket, 
trailed by a pair of beautiful hounds, dear 
Mike and Pat, my pride and joy for many 
youthful years. I can hear their bell-like 
blended voices, bass and treble—happy in¬ 
deed the country boy who owns such dogs 
as these. Again another picture, a liver 
colored pointer, rigid as a statue cast in 
bronze, “Jay” of royal lineage. I hear the 
whirr of the quail, the crack of the gun, 
I see the puff of feathers and the fault¬ 
less action of the dog, as the bird is re¬ 
trieved and placed in my waiting hand. 
Again it is the stately hills and broad val¬ 
leys of southern New York, glowing in all 
the gorgeous, changing colors of autumn. 
I hear the thunderous roar of the rising 
grouse, the twitter of the woodcock, and 
admire their beautifully colored plumage 
as they come to bag. Again in later years, 
the broad rolling prairies of central Kan¬ 
sas, where the paths of the lately departed 
buffalo are still plainly to be seen, with 
the sun flowers growing ten feet high in 
their deserted wallows, the vast flocks of 
geese feeding on the wheat fields, look¬ 
ing in the distance like great flocks of 
sheep, with the ever present Prairie 
Chicken to complete the picture. Again it 
is the eastern shore of Virginia. I see the 
tall shaft of “Hog Island” light, with the 
little village of Broadwater clustered at its 
foot, the fine grove of pines north of it, 
the cosy cottage in their shadow, the smil¬ 
ing countenance of Captain Bill Doughty, 
and his good wife, the dining table cov¬ 
ered with delicious southern dishes that 
shq knew so well how to prepare, the 
cedar blinds on the shoals, the wonderful 
flocks of brant that rose in clouds to 
darken the sun, and I hear the roar of 
their wings, that sounded at a distance like 
a tornado, or an express train, all these 
I see and many more. Oh! glorious days 
of long ago, gone never to return except 
in memories that are fondly cherished. 
1 COME of a family devoted to field 
sports for many generations. My 
great grandfather was a captain in the 
Continental Army, and a noted deer slayer 
in his day, his honored dust lies in the 
beautiful cemetery at Warwick, New 
York. My grandfather was a noted fox 
hunter, a friend of the gifted “Frank For¬ 
rester” and mentioned by him in his fox 
hunt in “Warwick Woodlands.” He moved 
from Warwick to 
New Jersey in 
1832 and pur¬ 
chased a large 
farm near the 
shore of Raritan 
Bay. He made 
h i s first duck 
shooting trip to 
Barnegat Bay 
about the year 
1840, doing his 
shooting near 
where the grow¬ 
ing town of Bay 
Head now stands; 
this district was 
then known as 
the “Ditches,” and 
many of the older 
people still use 
the name. At that 
date, and for 
many years after, 
there were but 
three houses be¬ 
tween the head of 
the bay and the present town of Seaside 
Park, about fifteen miles. They were “Uncle 
Jakey Herberts” (now Mantoloking), 
“Captain Bill Chadwicks” and “Mammy 
Ortleys,” truly a wild, lonely and desolate 
region, treasured by those in the “know,” 
for in those days, as well as now, isolation 
meant good shooting. The only way of 
reaching the shooting grounds was by tak¬ 
ing the old New Jersey Southern Railroad 
to Toms River and thence by sail boat, or 
by driving overland through the pines and 
sand to the beach. The new percussion 
gun had at this time come into general 
use (superseding the flint lock), and won¬ 
derful bags of wild fowl were secured 
under favorable conditions. 
My grandfather had three sons, two of 
these, my Uncle William and my father, 
developed the family traits; they were stal¬ 
wart, resourceful, adventurous men, typical 
Americans of their day. Uncle William 
stood six feet six inches in his stockings 
and my father six feet one inch. They 
were crack shots and inseparable compan¬ 
ions. In the year 1851 and again in 1856, 
they made a trip to Indiana and Illinois, 
enjoyed the shooting there and brought 
back each time a drove of horses, combin¬ 
ing business and pleasure. This was con¬ 
sidered a wonderful feat, in those days 
most of the journey being made on horse 
back, through a wild and thinly settled 
country, requiring both courage and en¬ 
durance. I still have my father’s buckskin 
body belt, in which he carried his gold on 
these memorable and dangerous trips into 
the sparsely settled western country. 
About the year 1850 these two brothers 
chose Bill Chadwicks as their shooting 
ground, and from that date to 1863 made 
two trips each year, in November and 
4 
