May 12, 1906.] 

FOREST. AND STREAM. 
79! 

Out of the November Sky. 
ALL the way from the Far North, from the 
sources of the McKenzie and the Albany, from 
the great plains of Saskatchewan, where the 
nests are scattered on the half-dried muskegs, 
from the cold shores of James’ Bay, a thousand 
miles straightaway these ducks had winged their 
separate flight, to end their short lives on the 
wild rice covered waters of this old hunt- 
ing lake. 
The duck shooting season had progressed all 
through the warm days of September, with its 
teal and wood duck, its mallard and black duck. 
October with its crimson and yellow woods, its 
nipping airs and falling leaves, when the bluebills 
and canvasbacks, the little sawbills (hooded mer- 
gansers) and buffleheads, the widgeon and pin- 
tail hovered fluttering over the decoys. All the 
marsh cover of wild rice and reed had faded and 
shriveled or fallen before the heavy winds and 
biting frosts. Now, when the trees were gaunt 
and leafless and the ice was forming on the edge 
of the rice beds, came the late flocks of redheads, 
their satin gray-lined wings flashing in the clear 
air, and their brilliant heads making a tempting 
mark; now, when November was with us, these 
fat, well-fed birds arrived on their way to the 
south, stopping here to live a few days, if mayhap 
they escaped the many hidden blinds, on the 
sunken. wild rice seéd and the luxuriant beds 
of wild celery. 
Far up in the air on a clear November morning 
we could hear a rushing noise, sounding like a 
great sheet of flame, or a rush of heavy wind. 
Our necks were craned into all sorts of wry 
shapes, our eyes fairly revolved to find the mi- 
grants, still the circling swooping noise continued ; 
finally far up, so far they were only like swallows 
yet, we saw the flock. Down they came in great 
circles, sweeping through the air at immense 
speed, literally falling out of the sky. Down they 
came while we held our breath and our guns also, 
over our island they swept, out in front of the 
decoys, back over the island again, then down 
they sat, a hundred yards outside. Through the 
telescope I watched them, they were tired out by 
their long flight and every one of them scooped 
up the water into its bill with the odd shoveling 
motion this bird always uses while drinking. The 
lake was as calm as the proverbial mirror, they 
sat so still there was hardly a ripple from the 
whole flock, twenty-nine as handsome birds as 
~ ever flew on to this old Jake, not a female among 
them, every bird was a male with a red head 
glowing like a coal. Within ten minutes all the 
flock save two were hard asleep, one of these 
spied our decoys, lifted lightly off the water and 
flew in beside them; the camera clicked as he 
turned to swim out and I present him to your 
notice. 
As the day grew late our hunger came on, my 
chum gave some excellent imitations of a man 

THE LONE REDHEAD, 
starving to death and tightened his belt in a hope- 
less manner, so we stood up, the sleeping flock 
awoke, shook themselves, eyed us and flew away 
on heavy wings, just skimming the surface, and 
we walked over the island to the shanty. 
Returning later we crept through the grass to 
the point to see if any birds had visited our de- 
coys while my greedy friend was eating so much, 
—he says it was I, but I ignore such scandal. 
Not a bird. the thirty-four decoys were all alone. 
I turned to walk down the bank when a white 
object on the stones attracted my attention. There 
sat a whistler (American goldeneye), squatted 
right in front of the big camera. I always left 
the tube up on the banktop when we went to 
lunch, so down I dropped and did some wriggling 
after the fashion of the red men that a hundred 
years ago shot on this very island. Dragging my- 
self along I managed to reach the bulb; the 
camera was at “universal.” ‘“Clang”’ rang the 
curtain, up flew the bird, up jumped the imita- 
tion hunter I shoot with, bang went his ancient 
weapon and down fell the whistler. I pictured it 
again as it lay on the water; the head had sunk 
until only the golden eye was exposed, the green 
gloss of the head shone in the bright sunlight, and 
the beautiful markings of the black and white 
plumage showed clear and distinct. 
Later we pictured the hide just after three 
biuebill drakes had fallen dead into the decoys 
and were gathered and laid on the window, where 
the lens of the small camera keeps watch. 
Then a mighty hunter arrived, one who is un- 
rivalled in this—and by his stories I think any 
other world. I was foolish enough to tell.a very 
weak hie first. I immediately saw I had left my- 
self open and he took advantage of the opening. 
and told many weird lies; his last as he stepped 
into the old wreck he called a canoe was stun- 
ning. He merely said, “The last time I shot on 
this here point, I killed so many I couldn’t put 
them into one heap.” 
From now until the end of November, when 
the lake freezes, all the late migrants, birds that 
heve stayed om the small back lakes in this part 
of Canada feeding, birds of about fifteen different 
varieties, will arrive in small flocks and gather 
here for the last flight, rafting into masses of 
many thousands. The only ones that stay later 
are a few whistlers, goosanders—the big mer- 
gansers; then about the 25th we will awake one 
morning to find all this big lake coated over with 
a thin sheet of ice, all the birds that stay yet for 
a day or two crowd into the open mouths of the 
rivers—the haven that the poor wounded ones 
have sought out earlier. Then the Mississaugas 
build “hides” in the reeds and wild oats, and two 
days of good shooting ends the season on Rice 
Lake. 
That last night’s freeze up is a pitiful one for 
the poor wounded web-footed ones, wing broken 
and body hit, so that they cannot fly. They swim 
around all the night in an ever-narrowing circle, 
smeller grows the hole as the ice forms, faster 
and harder swims and struggles the bird. At last 
the ice nips it, closes it in, freezes the last tiny 
open spot, and in the morning we find them dead, 
with the ice frozen in many long circles around 
the ducks, showing by its very formation how 
hard our birds worked and suffered. 
BONNYCASTLE DALE, 

BEFORE THE CAMERA SHOT. 
AND AFTER THE GUN SHOT, 
