February, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
117 
sun had disappeared, for the twenty min¬ 
utes of twilight and afterglow, the ducks 
came up out of the big cypress swamp to 
feed on the prairie ponds. We made 
straight for our positions, picking up a 
few plover on our way. Then just at the 
right time, we took our stands behind a 
clump of palmettos at the edge of the big 
trees, where the ducks were due to pass. 
F IRST came the crows, winging their 
way slowly toward the woods. They 
had been out on the prairie all day. 
Next came robins, seeking safety for the 
night among the palms. Swallows flitted 
around us. A Jo-a-ree, or chewink, rustled 
among the palm fans making enough noise 
for a bird ten times its size. Then in the 
soft silence, the moon hanging white in the 
east and the afterglow coloring the west 
crimson and gold against the budding cy¬ 
press, along came the ducks. 
They came high and they came swift. 
They came in pairs, and in bunches of a 
dozen or more. Many passed out of range. 
But at last, the Veteran’s gun boomed and 
the echoes reverberated through the cypress 
swamp. I saw one duck come surging down 
from the sky, and heard it drop with a 
thud. But just then, my turn came. Two 
fat ducks skimmed the tree tops and dipped 
for the level ground—as they swept by I 
turned loose, “Bang, bang, bang,” and to 
my joy one detached itself and volplaned 
to earth, where Lem brought him to bag. 
They were coming—now a single whistled 
down so low that the dark forest back¬ 
ground hid it till it was out of range. Now 
a bunch went by high overhead, right in the 
face of the moon. A pair of huge owls 
tuned up—I suppose they said “Who Who,” 
but that hardly describes it. Their call was 
a sort of cat snarl, ending in an orotund 
bullfrog hoot that sounded as from the 
lungs of a cow. But still the ducks came 
over. Beautiful woodduck, green-winged 
teal, widgeon, mallard, and one we got was 
a positive fairy of a feathered beauty—a 
huge raven black pompadour with a snow 
white line in it, a small golden eye, and 
iridescent plumage—buffle head, we called 
it, though I do not know its real name. 
W E led them well as they skimmed 
over in the dusk—but though we 
each shot fifteen shots, the net bag 
was two apiece. But the joy of it all! 
Never have I had such shooting. The 
echoes of the silent forest, the call of the 
night birds, the great full moon, and the 
skimming targets up there in the faint 
glow of the sky. Then with our bags full 
—a dozen quail, a couple of duck, a few 
snipe and plover, home across the prairie 
to camp among the palms. 
Imagine that camp—the negroes cooking 
over their open fires, with the glow of red 
flames flitting along the pines and palms, 
the weird, jungle-like songs they sang as 
the savory meal cooked, the dogs creeping 
at heel, the rustle of rabbit or coon through 
the thickets, the fragrance of the tropic 
night, and the trail home through the silver 
moonlight, till we were filled to the brim 
w r ith the joy of forest and prairie. And 
best of all, another day coming tomorrow, 
another day with the quail, still another, 
several of them, with the turkeys, many 
with the ducks and skunks and coons and 
’gators. But of them, there is not room 
now, you shall hear in the next chapter. 
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