One Cure for a Cold. 
As proof that the wind is not always tem¬ 
pered to the shorn lamb, let me say that after 
I had been sick with tonsilitis, the dust and germ¬ 
laden wind that swept the city streets gave me 
a bad cold. To anyone who has had either ton¬ 
silitis or a bad cold no description is necessary; 
to anyone who has not, mere words are wholly 
inadequate to convey a complete understanding 
or evoke a proper feeling of sympathy. Any¬ 
way, I was nearly all in. Then came a telegram 
saying that the ice had broken in the Hudson, 
bluebirds had arrived, sap was running and ducks 
were only waiting for me to try to outwit them. 
I packed my grip, dragged myself to the station 
and started homeward, building visions and 
dreaming dreams of days on the river. 
At that time the law permitted spring shoot- 
To make the conditions more ideal, it began 
to snow and rain, a wet melting snow, half water, 
that raised a mist over the ice and coated me 
and my boat with slush. “Now, Mr. Blackduck, 
look out for yourself; I’m a-coming.” I laughed 
aloud and actually tried a little spurt up a lead 
in the ice just to see if I had any life left in 
me. Soon I saw a pair of black ducks- billing 
along the edge of a big ice hummock, and in a 
few moments more I had mapped out my course. 
The wet hood over my head, ice strewed over 
the bow of the boat, my gun loaded and at hand, 
I paddled slowly nearer until at thirty yards I 
got the first duck of the season. 
Still it snowed and rained and I began to look 
for a place to eat my lunch where I could be 
under shelter, my hunger telling me that it was 
long past noon, and my hunting fever having 
been broken by the four ducks that lay in the 
snow and rain settle steadily over the ice and 
river. At last the tide began to ebb, and I con¬ 
cluded to start back. In walking to the boat, 
seat under one arm and lunch box under the 
other, the ice suddenly gave way, sending me 
down suddenly into the ice cold water. Now, 
it has always been a pet theory of mine that for 
anyone to get drowned by breaking through the 
ice was unnecessary; that all you had to do was 
to climb back on the ice, and if the ice gave way 
again, climb again, and so on, always reverting 
to the original proposition until either shore or 
solid ice was reached. Gasping for breath from 
the coldness of my unexpected plunge and beat¬ 
ing the ice with my arms, I realized with equal 
suddenness that at last I had an opportunity to 
put this theory into practice, and no sooner 
thought than done and I stood on firm ice. But 
in my haste I had climbed out on the shore side 
Goosander Rising. Goosanders on Esopus Island. 
WINTER SHOOTING SCENES ON THE UPPER HUDSON RIVER. 
ing. How my pulse did quicken and my skin 
get prickly with anticipation at the sight of the 
drifting ice and the sound and smell of the old 
river! The scent of hay and barn loft dust came 
up from my little duck boat, mingled with the 
smell of painted canvas, when I dragged her out 
on the snow. My ice-frayed paddles and oars, 
the muslin battery and hood, the shell belt, the 
big duck gun—what old friends they were! I 
began to feel better. 
• Up the river with the flood tide, picking my 
way among the floes, in and out through shifting 
patches of open water, I drove the little boat 
with whatever strength I could muster. The 
freedom of the river. There’s nothing like it; 
the miles of ever-changing ice, always varied, 
always interesting, often telling vivid stories of 
the places from which the great fields had come, 
scarred and embattled, now snow white, now 
dirty, now piled up and littered with logs, trees 
or a hundred other things from up river, now 
great level fields—it pulled me on and on with 
strong hands. The knowledge that I had the 
whole sweep of the Hudson absolutely to my¬ 
self and that I cou’d meet and defeat the giant 
forces of ice and tide at will gave me strength 
and joy with every breath. , 
tapering ribbed stern of the boat, I began to 
think of eating to the exclusion of everything 
else. Under the rocky wall of High Point some¬ 
one had blasted a tunnel deep in the rock, no 
doubt looking for cement years ago, and though 
I knew the water must be dripping from the 
walls and a foot deep on the bottom, it would 
provide protection from the falling snow once 
I could get inside its black mouth. Along the 
cove was a hundred feet of heavy ice that had 
not moved as yet, being held in position by the 
rocks and points. 
There are two ways of hauling a boat out on 
the ice. One is to row up alongside the ice, 
step Out on it and draw the boat up after you; 
the other is to back off about six oar strokes 
away, and with a racing start send the boat out 
full length on the ice. The latter is quicker, 
more spectacular, but the boat must have just 
the right kind of a bow. Since my seventy-five- 
pound canvas affair had the right bow for such 
ice-riding performances, I was able to haul out 
in less time than it takes to tell of it. 
With the seat from the boat to keep me out 
of the water under foot and by selecting a spot 
where no water dripped from the rocks over¬ 
head, I ate my lunch in comfort, watching the 
of the hole while my boat, the only practical 
means I had of getting home, was on the solid 
ice at the edge of the channel. The sun had 
weakened the ice close in, that further out re¬ 
maining solid. Trying another spot, I broke 
through again and my theory worked equally 
well, this time landing me on the river side of 
the ice field. 
Certainly I was wet. Oil skins and high rub¬ 
ber boots were planned only as protection from 
the weather and are useless for bodily immer¬ 
sions. Standing on the ice in the snow and 
rain, I poured the gallons of water from my 
boots, wrung out a few of my outer garments, 
and with chattering teeth and numb fingers 
jumped in my boat and started on the five-mile 
row homeward. 
My cold was gone absolutely, and after a hot 
supper and an eleven-hour sound sleep, I awoke 
as fresh as the proverbial daisy. The sun was 
shining, the white ice fields reflecting their ser¬ 
ried sides in the dark water, so with camera 
lens poked through the battery in place of gun 
I sallied out again, feeling the glow of strength 
and joy of exertion as I rowed away. It was 
great fun, and though I got within one-third gun 
range of blackducks and mergansers, they were 
