Ducking in a Missouri Jungle. 
Doniphan, Mo., Feb. i .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Our spring duck shooting here is as 
a rule confined chiefly to the swamp lands that 
lie east of us, for when spring comes the moun¬ 
tain streams are too deep and swift to furnish 
food for the duck family, and to the flats of the 
bottoms, filled with the acorns from the willow 
oak trees, grown up also in thick strips of smart 
weed, especially so in places where summer sun¬ 
light occasionally finds a space among the dense 
foliage to promote a growth of this food which 
appears such a tempting article of diet for the 
mallards. Also the millions of young crawfish 
that have just come into the world rank as food 
very high in the mallards’ estimation. 
Some claim they feed on the nut or berry, 
whichever it may be, culled from the tupelo gum 
which is seen 'floating everywhere, but on this 
point I must differ, for I have never seen one 
pass into a mallard, though they eat about every¬ 
thing else. * 
In the line of duck food there is one grass 
that covers the surface of the .ponds like moss, 
that furnishes a very small seed, like that of 
Southern crab grass, which seems to be an 
article of diet very much favored by th^ small 
tribes of ducks, including teal, bluewing and 
other varieties, mergansers, bluebills, and our 
resident friends, the woodduck; and I have seen 
the necks of these ducks crammed full, as the 
little boy says. 
Very little attention is paid to the smaller 
tribes of ducks, and in fact during the last fif¬ 
teen years, while hunting these .swamp feeding 
grounds, I have never met a single hunter ex¬ 
cept an occasional native visiting his traps, who 
might be tempted to fire into a feeding flock 
if he thought the numbers would justify a load. 
On the borders of the swamps some shooting 
is done by sportsmen, but in the main feed¬ 
ing grounds I have never met a human being 
after the mallard. Not that these tracts of shoot¬ 
ing territory are unknown, but the difficult going 
is sufficient to deter many who would otherwise 
find enjoyment killing the noisy mallard as he 
towers to get above the lofty treetops. To get 
into this swamp one must be well equipped with 
waders; it is all walking. The smallest boat 
could not penetrate this jungle of down timber. 
Submerged hazels, blackberry and the vicious 
green briar, huge logs of inconceivable length 
and thickness at every step, cypress knees, and 
almost impenetrable elbow brush form barriers 
which the average hunter does not care to break 
through. But even these obstacles have failed 
to break down the mania the writer possesses for 
this kind of hunting. Not the love alone of kill¬ 
ing game tempts him, but the knowledge that 
he will see game in quantities sure to prove 
an allurement that never fails to tempt him 
when the first warm rains of February appear. 
So great is the temptation that it is irresistible— 
and the better half knowing what a strong hold 
this kind of hunting has upon me—long ago 
found out the futility of trying to deter me from 
my visits to these submerged districts. 
It is a hard task to get out to the feeding 
grounds, over hundreds of large logs, across 
many sloughs, the only guide to depth, the trees 
and herbage of the country, brake after brake 
of the stately cypress, until tired and aching in 
every limb the willow oak flats are reached. 
There I never see or hear the mallards feed¬ 
ing for the first time each year, but my nerves 
are all a-tremble, the noise almost deafening, hun¬ 
dreds swim out before you as you crouch unseen 
behind some gigantic sweet gum or hide in 
the hollow of the rotten trunk of a cypress 
stretched out on some partially submerged log. 
Dozens lie at full length, gorged with the willow 
oak mast; bright patches of green here and there 
interspersed, with the more sombre hue of the 
female, form a fascinating blend of coloring in 
the wild environment. The constant moving 
here and there of the feeding masses of ducks 
controls the eye so strongly that for the time the 
desire to shoot is eliminated from the mind. But 
the snap of a piece of dry bark, the involuntary 
splash of the foot, or the exposure of the glit¬ 
tering gun barrels changes all this scene into a 
roar of thunder as the mallards rise, for in spite 
of their numbers and remote feeding grounds, 
alertness to danger has never left them; flock 
after flock thunder up through the timber, one 
flock frightening the other—the quack of well 
enjoyed feeding is changed to the note of alarm 
—and the water in a short time is without ducks. 
Do not move from your position, for it will not 
be long before they begin to return, some small 
flocks at first circling high and wide, joined 
quickly by others. Slowly but surely the circle 
begins to narrow, and down to the water it comes 
so close now that the soft purr of their wings 
is heard as they soar, looking for a suitable place 
to alight. Not seeing anything to have caused 
such a scare they pitch back into their feeding 
grounds. It is a beautiful sight indeed to see. 
One never cares to kill over a dozen ducks, for 
the job of toting them out is a matter not to 
be overlooked. If these swamps were ever 
cleared of the dense timber, a small boat would 
be very useful, but so far wading boots are the 
only help into these feeding grounds, and no 
matter how used one becomes to this swamp 
life, the same tired feeling creeps over you long 
before sundown. 
It must not be inferred that ducks are every¬ 
where numerous in the swamps, for sometimes 
a mile or two of difficult wading will fail to re¬ 
veal a duck. But they generally congregate at 
these flats to feed and leave at dusk for roost¬ 
ing holes. When feeding noiselessly, mallards 
are invariably on the watch for danger, and are 
more easily approached and flushed within shoot¬ 
ing range about noon, when they pick the edges 
of the flats to indulge in a siesta or a careful 
preening of feathers. These ducks are the ones 
most plentiful here, a redhead or canvasback 
being a rare sight, though occasionally a few are 
•killed in the farming districts. 
Loch Laddie. 
New Washington Goose Country. 
Seattle, Wash., Feb. 15.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: At different times in the course of a 
year southeastern Washington offers as good 
goose shooting as can be had anywhere in the 
Pacific coast States. I have used the words 
"different times” for the simple reason that 
goose shooting is an uncertain sport, but when 
things come right it fills all the requirements 
of the most grouchy, dyspeptic and pessimistic 
person that ever put a gun to his shoulder. 
It has been my fortune or misfortune—suit 
yourself—to make a trip to southeastern Wash¬ 
ington in quest of Canadian geese during the 
past ten days. I did not hit it right, so the gan¬ 
ders are not holding family councils on the sand¬ 
bars of the Columbia River to figure out what 
happened to thin their ranks. Into that trip 
were crowded all the trials and tribulations of 
the hunter who grabs his gun at a moment’s 
notice and “hikes” for a country new to him 
topographically, geographically and socially. 
The persons I met, however, took my failure 
more to heart than I did. It was really a de¬ 
lightful trip, every development adding a new 
pleasure and giving information about a section 
that may be truly called the “Inland Empire.” 
The people of southeastern Washington, old 
settlers and new comers, are an enthusiastic, 
ambitious, intelligent, loyal class. Many of 
them are already rich in the world’s goods and 
others are already making rapid strides toward 
the same goal. They hunt some, but they work 
more, and they are always studying the methods 
that make mother earth give her best returns. 
Opposite the new town of Hanford, on the 
Columbia, thirty-five miles up river from Ken¬ 
newick, there is a plateau whose elevation is 
eleven hundred feet. Here are about twenty- 
six square miles of sage brush land that bids 
fair to become one of the best wheat producing 
sections of the State. There is no hurrah boys 
about it. They have their troubles. It costs 
them twenty cents for one hundred gallons of 
water when they purchase it from the Smith 
wells. They have to rustle hard for wood, but 
they have the soil that promises to produce 
wheat, and the country at large is always ready 
to buy it. 
On the opposite side of the river at Hanford 
things are commencing to move rapidly. Every 
boat up the river from Kennewick brings men 
who are coming into the country to investigate 
the opportunities and decide for themselves 
whether it is worth while to become a pioneer. 
The thing that struck me forcibly was that 
nearly all who come to see with their own eyes 
stay. I met a man on the boat going to Han¬ 
ford. He was fifty-eight years old, but he 
looked older. Three days later I saw him again. 
He had purchased a ten-acre tract, had it 
“ironed,” and was getting ready to use the plow. 
He looked twenty years younger. Each of those 
acres cost him $300. “Isn’t that a high price?” 
I asked. “Well,” he said, “perhaps so, but I 
would not sell for $400.” 
