594 
FOREST AND STREAM 
December, 1917 
By WIDGEON 
A MONG the earliest recollections of 
my childhood are the periodical duck 
shooting trips made by my father to 
Barnegat Bay, or the “Ditches, as it was 
then generally called. How eagerly I 
awaited his return, and with what delight 
I sorted over the game, sure that I would 
find a pair of teal or “Dippers” (buffle 
heads) for my especial benefit. Then those 
long winter evenings, when father would 
take me on his knee before the fireplace 
filled with glowing logs, while mother sat 
contentedly knitting, and with his strong 
arm around me, tell wondrous stories of 
“Squan” beach, of the snipe, duck and 
goose shooting, of storms at sea, and 
dreadful shipwrecks, and to my great de¬ 
light imitate the call of the various species 
of wild fowl, the plaintive whistle of the 
plover and curlew, the “honk” of the wild 
goose, the quack of the mallard and black 
duck, and the metallic whistle of the wid¬ 
geon, until the “Sandman” would cause 
my eyes to blink, then he would tuck me 
in my “Trundle” bed, and tell me some day 
he would take me with him. It is no won¬ 
der that with my first wooden gun I killed 
vast quantities of imaginary ducks 
and geese, and brought them home 
to mother. 
As I grew older I developed a 
great hunger for reading; books for 
boys were far from plenty in those 
days, but I had an indulgent father, 
and so came into possession of “Neil 
D’Arcy,” “Cast Up by the Sea,” and 
Captain Marryat’s “Sea Tales.” 
These good books spurred my im¬ 
agination, until I longed for the day 
to come when I might leave the 
home nest and try my wings. All 
things come to those who wait, and 
so when I was in my twelfth year, 
my grandfather died at the ripe old 
age of eighty-four and bequeathed to 
me, his namesake, “my gold Watch 
and Chain,” and “my German Silver 
Mounted Fowling Piece.” What a 
wonderful gun that was! As I held it in 
my hand for the first time, my boyish heart 
swelled with pride; my greatest desire had 
been gratified, and I would not have ex¬ 
changed places with the heir of the Astors. 
My father soon initiated me in the mys¬ 
teries of handling the precious gun; the 
loading, with the proper proportions of 
A Homely Shrine—That Old House of 
the Ortleys on the Shores of Barne¬ 
gat—But the Mecca of Duck Shooting 
Pilgrimages for Over Half a Century. 
powder and shot, the wadding, how to 
carry the gun with safety, how to shoot, 
etc. I am sure it was a labor of love on 
his part, and I made rapid progress under 
his tutoring. The gun and I became in¬ 
separable, and I believe I would have taken 
it to bed with me, if mother would have 
permitted it. I presume I must have made 
somewhat of a nuisance of myself, for I 
overheard a neighbor say to his wife, 
“Henry will ruin that boy, letting him run 
with a gun all the time; better keep him 
to work doing something worth while.” 
Father had promised to take me duck 
shooting with him, when I could shoot 
“flying” and I practised diligently. Many 
a robin and catbird was badly frightened 
that summer, but none brought to bag. 
That winter I became the owner of a copy 
of “Colonel Hawker on Wild Fowling,” 
and studied it carefully. The following 
spring, I began my practice on wing shoot¬ 
ing, when the swallows came, and one 
morning I brought one down. It was a 
proud moment when I showed the bird to 
father. I found that I had acquired the 
“knack” and from that moment I became 
a “Wing Shot.” I was the only boy who 
could shoot “flying” in our vicinity, and 
was greatly envied by my boyhood chums. 
During the summer I practiced on night 
hawks, snipe and other birds, and really 
became quite proficient, for a boy, and then 
father told me he would take me with him 
to the “Ditches” in November. 
How slowly the time passed, but at last 
I could count the days, and then—oh joy! 
—the day arrived. It was quite an under¬ 
taking in those days, for it meant a drive 
of forty-five miles, most of the way 
through heavy sand, and required the full 
day. We were up very early that morning. 
The canvas covered “Carryall” wagon was 
brought to the door, the bags of shelled 
corn for the horses placed in the back, then 
the “Shooting Trunk” containing the am¬ 
munition, a fine smoked ham, several 
roasted fowls, and sundry loaves of “home 
made bread” (for there might be short 
commons where we were going). Then 
the guns, rubber boots, heavy coats, etc. A 
long embrace and kiss from mother, with 
many admonitions to be careful, and we 
were off, just as the sun was rising, with 
a very happy boy sitting on the trunk and 
father and Uncle William on the 
front seat. Up the turnpike to the 
south, through the “Deep Cut” into 
“Pleasant Valley,” through Holmdel 
and Colts Neck, and then over the 
“Hominy Hills,” through the heavy 
coarse white sand and scrub oaks to 
“Squankum” (now Farmingdale), 
and on to “Lower Squankum” (now 
Wayside), where we stopped to feed 
our horses, and take dinner with 
mine host Mayhew Little. I will 
never forget that dinner, such a dish 
of country ham and eggs, cooked to 
a turn, with warm bread and all the 
other accessories. A certain hungry 
boy ate all he could hold, and then 
like “Oliver Twist,” longed for more. 
After a short rest we were on our 
way, through “Bergen Iron Works” 
(now Allaire), then through another 
long stretch of pines and sand, to the old 
hotel at ‘Point Pleasant,” where we 
stopped to water our horses. We were 
now nearing the ocean, and we soon 
reached the sand hills, at a point about 
one-half mile north of the present town of 
“Bay Head.” There was a small hotel 
here, open only in the summer; here we 
