side to rest and then proceed back to 
her companions with endless quacking. 
She seemed to love the distant echo of 
her voice, and what notes are sweeter 
to the hunter’s ear than the unsolicited 
calling of his decoys? 
Hattie further endeared herself to 
her trainer when she made it unneces¬ 
sary for him to load her into the crate. 
The minute she saw him paddle his 
boat from the “brake” in preparation 
for gathering the decoys, Hattie met 
him, lifted herself on her wings and 
squatted at his feet or on the seat in 
the bow of the boat. When the boat 
reached the home shore Hattie flopped 
out and waddled to the poultry yard; 
thus the trainer ceased to bother about 
Hattie. When he went duck training 
she loaded herself, led the other ducks 
in their calling, shared his lunches and 
took her place in the boat for the home¬ 
ward trip without a bit of trouble to 
the trainer. Such a companion was 
Hattie that the trainer (being a South¬ 
erner) named her Honey Duck. 
Instead of the roasting pan, Hattie 
vamped herself into such favor that by 
the time the hunting season opened she 
was the adored chum of her trainer. 
But it was in actual hunting that 
Hattie won her laurels. No matter how 
dull the morning, how heavy the mists 
over Caddo Lake, the hunter had only 
to call very softly, “Honey Duck,” 
“Honey Duck,” and Hattie would an¬ 
swer back until all the ducks would take 
up the refrain, with the result that 
many a wedged-shaped line in the sky 
caught the distant echo, sought it out 
and met its doom. 
But Hattie’s heart must have been 
as black as her off feathers were white. 
Not content to swim among the dead 
bodies of her species, that had come to 
answer hex’ call, she set forth to seek 
those that might be unable to hear her 
in the “brake.” Whether she looked 
upon the perfect coloring, of her mates 
and smarted at her own ill-marking and 
sought vegeance for hex' jealousness, is 
not known; anyway, she went forth to 
add to her gory laurels. Being free 
and not tied to a ball and chain, as 
were the other decoys, Hattie wandered 
further away from the shelter of the 
island where the hunter was hiding. 
She would go so far, be gone so long, 
that often the master would fear that 
some gar might have feasted, but not 
on Hattie. She would swim far away 
from the island, into open water where 
timid ducks were wont to rest, feeling 
sure of safety out of gunshot of the 
willows. Hattie would eye the sky-line 
for a distant speck and then call her 
thrilling, assuring call. The flock would 
drop about her; then Hattie would be¬ 
gin the murderous task of swimming 
back to the island. Unco .xcerned, friend¬ 
ly, feeding, she would move those un¬ 
suspecting ducks to the very edge of the 
willows; then she herself, as if sudden¬ 
ly tired, would waddle onto the island 
and turn an indifferent eye at the roar 
of the hunter’s gun above her head. 
As the gleeful hunter oared home, she 
plumbed her feather on the pile of dead 
bodies and seemed to pride herself in 
the number of glazed eyes beneath her. 
Thus Hattie established such a repu¬ 
tation that the hunters bid for her to 
be put at the head of their decoys. Hat¬ 
tie was rented out to the club members. 
Often telegrams were hurried forth to 
keep Hattie for such and such a mem¬ 
ber; a governor, a money king—Hattie 
had won the affections of them all. She 
was petted, feted. She was cheap at 
any price to a hunter. Her cunning, 
her voice made her ill-marking as noth¬ 
ing. 
Then came the doom. A very influen¬ 
tial man, though being skilled in the 
markets, was dull as to the art of hunt¬ 
ing. His money hired Hattie to head 
his decoys. As Hattie came swimming 
in from the distant waters, a large flock 
of wild mallards in tow, green heads 
and brown heads bobbing along in her 
wake, the unskilled hunter, the thought¬ 
less, eager man in the “blind,” fired 
before the wild part of the flock had 
winged high enough. One of the shots 
caught Hattie in the head. Her reign 
was over. Never again would her shrill 
call echo over the wavelets of Caddo 
Lake, with its melodious clearness 
bringing other ducks to their doom. 
Her white-feathered body lay with her 
last winnings. When her old trainer 
looked at her soiled white spots he said. 
“Honey Duck, we cannot eat you.” 
So Hattie was buried in the garden 
where the white and yellow honeysuckle 
makes a snook over the white fence. 
Dear Forest and Stream: 
From many happy experiences with 
rod and fly three stand out as rare and 
fortunate. 
One was on Willow River, in western 
Wisconsin, that flows into the Missis¬ 
sippi between Hudson and St. Paul. 
Just below a high fall, a group of 
springs flowed into the river, making it 
from that point onward for several 
miles an ideal trout stream. A St. Paul 
club had rented the river for five miles, 
built a club house and hired glides to 
patrol the banks against all poaching. 
It was not a popular act with the na¬ 
tives who had fished the stream from 
boyhood. Spending a sumer in St. Paul 
as the acting pastor of the House of 
Hope Church, and fishing a number of 
streams in Wisconsin with indifferent 
success, I was one day made rich by 
the gift of two tickets by a member of 
the church who was also a member of 
the Willow River Club. 
I thought of an old ministerial friend 
not far from the river who had never 
felt happy at his exclusion from his 
favorite stream. And very early one 
hot August morning my friend and I 
made our way to the Willow River Club. 
That day we had the stream to our¬ 
selves. My friend was an excellent bait- 
fisherman, and though the day was 
bright and warm, succeeded in making 
a fair catch by sinking his bait under 
banks and in the shadow of logs and 
rocks. In spite of the day I kept to my 
flies, and had to rejoice only at the 
success of another. But after sunset 
I had my turn. I happened to be at a 
long pool with pebbly bottom, not far 
from the cluster of springs. At the 
first cast the water boiled. And I had 
fun at every cast. I waded into the 
water pool to cast and then drew my 
fish upon a gravelly point, not using 
my landing net for fear of disturbing 
the water. I cast and landed speckled 
trout and rainbow until my arm fairly 
ached with the constant strain. I kept 
casting after it was too dark to see the 
fly, and only heard the “cling” of the 
strike and felt the struggle of the vic¬ 
tim. It was nine o’clock and the weight 
of my creel told me I had enough, 
twelve pounds being the limit to a oay s 
catch. When the basket was weighed 
at the club house it showed exactly 
eleven pounds and seventeen trout, the 
largest a rainbow of one and one-half 
pounds. 
One year I took three of my nephews 
and two of their friends, boys from 
thirteen to eighteen, into the northern 
peak of Maine, for their first experi¬ 
ence of the wilderness. We left the 
Aroostoock railroad at Ashland and 
had a buck-board ride of twenty miles, 
and then by canoe pulled up a rapid 
river for ten miles more to a little lake 
where we made our camp. We found 
deer in abundance and now and then 
caught sight of a moose. Though again 
it was August we had no difficulty in 
providing trout for the table. I in¬ 
sisted that the boys should start light 
by using the fly, though the catch 
should not satisfy their ambition. But 
the lucky day came at last. It had 
rained and a long inlet was bringing 
fresh water and food into the lake. We 
knew the mouth of the inlet was a good 
fishing place and had tried it before. 
Now both guides were eager. I took 
one guide, Jacob Hess, well known to 
Adirondackers, and one of my nephews 
took the other. The fish were eager 
for the fly. I caught several beautiful 
trout from one to two pounds. My 
nephew kept casting without success, 
the flies often striking the water in a 
bui^ch. At last, with a great wake 
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