Nov. 12, igio.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
775 
A Muscovy Roost. 
The country east of Tampico is very level for 
eighty miles or more inland, so that the rivers 
meander a good deal. It was seventy miles up 
the Tamesi River where I was staying with a 
friend on his sugar cane plantation and the con¬ 
versation around the table turned to the local 
game. My friend said he wanted me to kill 
one of the Pato Reales (royal duck), or what 
we know as the Muscovy. They are nowhere 
plentiful, and the way they are hunted is to 
shoot them crossing a river toward sundown on 
their way to roost. One of the peons knew 
where eighteen or twenty crossed, so we decided 
to go there that afternoon. 
We started up the river in the launch, not ex¬ 
pecting to see any ducks until we should reach 
a certain point where Pedro said they crossed, 
but before we had gone a mile we spied two 
of the grand old game birds in the top of a 
tree. They flew while we were yet sixty yards 
Sway, and ten charges of BB 
shot from five guns aimed at the 
nearer of the two crippled him 
enough so that he settled about 
one-quarter of a mile up the 
river. We gasolened up to where 
he lit and saw him making his 
way up the river bank, and six 
more charges of shot finished the 
work. 
It was now about the time for 
the ducks to start flying over, so 
we tied the launch on the side of 
the river from which the flight 
was to come, in order to remain 
invisible. I was in the dugout, 
which we had towed up the river. 
It was about thirty feet long and 
hewn from a three-foot log. The 
dugout is the typical craft of the 
region. In this the peon took me 
up the river, and it was not long- 
before I saw a sp'endid drake 
coming over, but he saw me and 
turned down the stream before clearing the trees. 
I called to the four guns in the boat and they 
had a vertical snapshot, but did not draw a 
feather. A few minutes later two more big fel¬ 
lows flew almost directly over the launch, but 
the four guns had no effect on their course. I 
now began to believe the stories of the “cast 
iron duck.” Several more flew over below the 
launch, so we decided to go down stream in the 
dugout. Just then a small duck flew over the 
launch and dropped before the four guns. Be¬ 
fore we could get to her in the dugout she had 
revived, and it required another charge to sub¬ 
due her. When I threw her into the dugout 
she revived a little and showed fight before 
dying. This was not, I believe, a case of poor 
shooting, guns or ammunition, but just the “cast 
iron” of the bird. Several more flew over, but 
none offered good shots. These two that we 
got are shown in the illustration. 
The drakes are iridescent green-black with 
glints of purple. The iris of the eye is red, 
giving the bird a ferocious look. He bears a 
double crest, one atop his head and the other 
on the nape of the neck. The duck has white 
wing coverts and is considerably smaller than 
her mate. 
The following day I was going hunting with 
Pablo, a typical Mexican Indian, so before day¬ 
light I was in a modern skiff with Pablo sitting 
on the gunwale aft, with one of a pair of oars 
in his hands paddling. Paddling because his 
fathers before him had paddled, and his des¬ 
cendants after him will doubtless inconvenience 
themselves to paddle even with all the facilities 
for rowing before them. 
We landed on the east side of the river, about 
a mile above the plantation and incidentally at 
about the point where the muscovies had disap¬ 
peared the previous evening. We then walked 
to a nearby lake, intending to skirt it in search 
of deer or peccaries. It was still dark in- the 
forest, and on making our way past a large 
canoe tree I heard two heavy birds fly out. 
“Pato reales?” I whispered, but Pablo assured 
me they were cormorants. A few minutes fur¬ 
ther on an opening in the jungle disclosed a 
large canoe tree silhouetted against the breaking 
day, and every branch bore two or three beauti¬ 
ful muscovies. I could hardly believe my eyes. 
A PAIR OF MUSCOVY DUCKS. 
1 had discovered their roost. Most had flown 
before I realized what was offered me, so de¬ 
laying no longer I shot point blank at a fine 
drake, but the BBs did not raise a feather. I 
paced the distance off and it was not above forty 
yards. A quarter of a mile further on we came 
upon another canoe tree with one duck. Its com¬ 
panions had probably been frightened at the 
shot. I took aim at this duck which was not 
more than thirty yards away and fired with no 
more effect than I had had the first time. 
W’e then proceeded on an unsuccessful hunt, 
and on returning home I did not say anything 
about my find, but made up my mind to make 
a better showing than the rest of the party. I 
declined going up the river again that evening, 
but asked my hostess to go hunting with me 
instead. This she readily consented to do, as 
I maintained an air of mystery as to what game 
we were going after. 
I took a .30-30 with hard-nosed bullets and 
told my hostess to take her .303 with hard 
points. This added to the mystery. After the 
rest of the party had gone up the river in the 
launch we crossed in a skiff, and within half 
an hour were under the canoe tree. We sat 
under small trees on either side of the roosting 
tree and facing the lake. This placed us with 
our backs to the party in the launch three- 
quarters of a mile away, and consequently to 
the direction from which the ducks were to 
come. 
We waited till nearly dark and heard the bat¬ 
tery in the launch bombarding. Finally two 
ducks passed along the lake front, apparently 
making for the tree from which I had heard 
two fly that morning. My hostess decided to go 
after these and hardly was she out of sight 
when there was a swish of heavy wings and 
a fine drake lit on one of the high branches over 
me. Before he could settle I sent a hard nose 
bullet through him and ran through the brush 
to where he dropped, for fear he might get into 
the thorn bushes covering the margins of the 
lake. A moment later three flew by and I heard 
my hostess shoot. Two started to settle, but saw 
me and left. Another came and lit and got a 
hard nose ball through him and was secured 
like the first. This ended the flight. Both of 
these ducks were alive enough when they hit 
the ground to show fight, although 
they had been centered by a rifle 
ball. Each of the plucky old fel¬ 
lows had struck at me and hissed 
defiance with his last breath. The 
two drakes were about as much 
as I wanted to carry and seemed 
very heavy at the end of the mile 
walk. We got home before the 
“gunboat,” and after they had 
proudly shown a very small duck, 
they were allowed to gaze at .our 
two beauties. C. 
A Student’s Afternoon Off. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
This afternoon I took my gun 
and went to a ridge about two 
miles below Lewisburg—the one 
you can see from my window. 
A young fe’low by the name of 
Ted went along with me. He is 
an amateur, but willing to carry 
a gun all day. We reached the woods at 2 o’clock 
and raised no bird till half-past three. Then 
we raised one, and when we got him up the 
second time I shot, scoring a clean miss. Ted 
saw him plainly, but said he was going too fast 
for him to try a shot. We could not find him 
again so we finally went on. We met a man 
who had seen one, but until 5 o’clock we saw no 
sign of another bird. About that time we took 
to the public road and walked up it until we 
came to a hollow that looked pretty good. 
There I put Ted on the bank above me, while 
I kept down in the hollow. Just a little way in 
I saw a piney and shot it. Ted ran to pick him 
up and I walked on. I had not gone more than 
ten rods when a big bird flushed and started up 
the hollow. I had a fairly open shot at this 
fellow, and when the old pump gun cracked, he 
turned over and hit the ground with a thud. 
This time I picked up the game; it was a fine, 
big pheasant. Well, we shook hands and patted 
each other on the back, and then proceeded to 
hunt on up the hollow, Ted on the bank again. 
We did not find anything and finally had to start 
for home. On the way out Ted jumped a bird 
that flew over me and I gave him a load of 
sevens. Two birds and a pine squirrel with four 
shots was not bad for one afternoon. Tod. 
