50 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[July 9, 1910. 
One bright cold morning we started off for 
a try at the small game and laid a course that 
brought us near one of the farms where we had 
hunted quail. Some distance off was a field of 
standing corn, and over this I noticed a flock of 
fifteen or twenty ducks flying low and wheeling 
as though about to alight. Watching, I finally 
saw them settle down into the corn near one 
end of the field where the land was low, and as 
there had been several days of heavy rains, I 
thought it likely there was water there. 
I had never killed a duck and was instantly 
all excitement. Making for the field I climbed 
over into the corn, and taking the direction of 
the spot where I had seen the ducks settle, com¬ 
menced to stalk them, Ponto backing me up. 
Slowly and carefully we crept down through 
the standing corn, going on hands and knees 
over exposed places, until I finally got a glimpse 
of water shining through the rows and felt sure 
I was keeping the direction. Soon I heard a 
splash and a musical quack deep and hoarse, and 
my heart skipped a beat as I got closer to the 
ground than ever. A little further along I saw 
something move, and watching carefully for a 
moment, made out a bright green head and then 
another and another. They were moving about, 
going up and down rapidly as though disturbed 
or busily feeding, and I flattened out full length 
while I tried to get control of my nerves and 
measure the distance. 
I concluded to try to get a little closer and 
twisted my head around to see the dog. He 
was right behind me, laid out as flat as a tape 
line, and looked like a long, brown snake and 
was fully as quiet as a snake could have been. 
Crawling forward a few feet I cautiously raised 
my head again, and there, within good shooting 
distance, was the most beautiful sight. On a 
small bit of water, straight down the corn row 
in which I lay, was a fine flock of mallard ducks 
feeding and splashing about. As I settled in 
position to fire they scented danger or heard a 
sound, and all heads were raised and necks 
stretched up, looking like a thicket of close 
growth. Into this thicket I poured a load of 
shot with such true aim that when the roar of 
beating wings and churned water had ceased, 
there lay five big mallard ducks. Thinking there 
might be one or more only wounded and need¬ 
ing another shot, I hastened as well as I could 
to reload. Just as this was accomplished I heard 
a whistling of wings and looking up saw the 
remainder of the flock returned, and wheeling 
overhead within range. Straight into the thick¬ 
est of it I fired again, and down came two more 
birds and then I broke loose. I did not care 
about reloading or anything else. Not even the 
scene of the killing of the first prairie chicken 
equalled that which followed. I dashed into the 
mud and even on into the water to retrieve my 
ducks, all of which fortunately were clean killed, 
and when I had the seven great mallards piled 
together, I danced and whooped around them 
as only a boy mad with joy can do. Ponto 
wagged his great tail and grinned heartily in 
sympathy and 'submitted gracefully to the hug 
with which I nearly broke his neek. 
As the bagging of those fine birds" marks one 
of the happiest incidents of my shooting life, 
so the getting of them home marks one of the 
most strenuous. Seven full-grown mallard ducks 
are a load, and a good one, for a strong man to 
transport two miles or more, and for a boy— 
unless he be very game—prohibitive. It was near 
the noon hour when a kind-hearted farmer, driv¬ 
ing a wagon, came on me—still more than a mile 
from home—resting beside my delightful bur¬ 
den. I was about all in, but still happy as mor¬ 
tal could be and ready to spend the next two 
days if necessary in getting my bag home. 
“Who-ap!” he shouted as he came up to where 
I sat by the roadside. “Why, what you got there, 
sonny?” he asked in surprise as he saw my 
pile of ducks. “Ducks—wild ducks.” “Gosh a- 
whickety!” he exclaimed. “I never saw so many 
before. Did you kill all they was?” 
I proudly told him the particulars of my ex¬ 
ploit and he exclaimed with more gosh a- 
whicketys and wound up with the statement, 
“You could git four or five dollars for all them 
ducks in town.” Fortunately I did not express 
my thoughts of this statement that I would not 
take four or five dollars for one of them, and he 
said: “Git in and ride with me; that is too 
heavy a load for you to carry. Whew! a heap 
too heavy,” he added, feelingly, as he had to get out 
and lift the string of ducks into the wagon for me. 
No more incidents of particular interest oc¬ 
curred during the few remaining days of our 
hunting that season, but my love for my first 
teacher in field sports did not abate by reason 
of our hunts being—for the time—over. 
Many seasons have come and gone since then. 
Many snows have whitened the sod over the 
dust of my good friend and instructor, but his 
early devotion, his sagacity, his patience and his 
sympathy have never been, and will never be, 
forgotten by one who owes his best impulses 
and instincts as a sportsman to Mr. Ponto, gen¬ 
tleman and sportsman. 
Wild Ducks on the Farm. 
A branch of wild animal domestication which 
ought to be taken up in this country, as often 
recommended in Forest and Stream, is the rear¬ 
ing of wild ducks. 
In primitive times wildfowl bred over a very 
large portion of the United States, and if per¬ 
mitted to do so they would breed there again. 
In sections of New York and New England, 
where spring shooting is forbidden, ducks breed 
in summer in numbers and the local birds seem 
constantly to be increasing. For two years past 
it has been thought by gunners in the Middle 
West and in the Southern States that the mal¬ 
lards and black ducks seen in autumn and win¬ 
ter have greatly increased. 
In primitive times wild ducks, geese and swans 
bred over much of North America, at least as 
far south as the Ohio River, while even to-day 
great numbers of woodducks are reared in the 
Southern States, and various forms of Southern 
ducks breed regularly in Florida, Texas and gen¬ 
erally along the Gulf. 
Wild ducks are hardy, and if protected from 
attacks of their enemies while young, grow 
rapidly and are soon able to take care of them¬ 
selves. Moreover, they can be easily cared for, 
since they have no natural fear of man. This 
has been shown in many ways. Each autumn 
and spring during the migrations large numbers 
of migrating wild ducks and occasionally geese 
are attracted by the tame wild ducks seen swim¬ 
ming on the ponds of the New York Zoological 
Society’s Park in the Bronx, and come down 
and alight with them, associating on the most 
friendly terms. Sometimes a few of these ducks 
are captured and only a few years ago a flock 
of nine Canada geese, which came down and 
joined the tame wild geese, were driven into 
captivity, and now form a portion of the Zoo¬ 
logical Society’s large flock of wildfowl. It is 
interesting on a blustery day in November or 
April to stand near one of these ponds and 
watch the flocks of wild ducks come down from 
on high and fly about over the ponds for some 
time until they have satisfied themselves that 
they may safely alight. Sometimes a flock of 
fifty or even seventy-five will fly over the ponds, 
scattering out as if about to alight, or again 
rising in the air and crowding into a thick bunch, 
or yet again flying around each of the ponds, 
often close to the observer. They seem to pay 
little or no heed to the human beings that are 
about and usually they splash down into the 
ponds and rest and feed there for a long time. 
Some of these birds in spring go no further 
north than the park and stay there, breeding 
with their captive fellows. It is not unusual in 
the early summer to see mallards and black- 
ducks flying about the park. 
In the same way in Central Park, New York, 
where human beings are always present, several 
pairs of blackducks have reared their young for 
a number of years. In winter when the ponds 
are ice-covered, these birds disappear, though 
whether they go to the southward or merely 
move to open water in which they can roost and 
feed no one appears to know. 
In “American Duck Shooting” some general 
description is given of the semi-domesticated 
eider ducks of Norway and the sheldrakes of 
Jutland. These birds have become so familiar 
with man that they build their nests in many 
unexpected places, and they are so valuable to 
