
where we arranged for accommoda- 
tions for the night. Here the doctor 
left us, returning to Webster on the 
evening train. That night we had 
bluewing for dinner—that bird which 
is held in the highest esteem among 
epicures and we, with our appetites 
whetted by Dakota air, did ample jus- 
tice to the meal. 
The next morning we were on our 
way with guide, decoys, boat and dogs, 
to Blue Lake where we were told the 
eanvasbacks afforded good _ shooting. 
Large numbers of this breed migrat- 
ing from the far northwest toward 
Chesapeake Bay, which is their winter 
quarters, stop along the open lakes and 
feed upon wild celery. Their bump 
of curiosity is great and consequently 
they afford the best open-water shoot- 
ing of any of our American ducks. 
Arriving at the southern shore of 
the lake at sunrise we could see ducks 
by the hundreds out a quarter of a 
mile from shore. We climbed into the 
boat, pushed off toward a point of land 
to the right, set our decoys, and I 
clambered onto the shore with my 
spaniel, Patsy, secreting myself among 
some buckbrush. Dick paddled off to 
the left so that he might bear down 
on the flock with the wind. It was not 
long before he had his gun working 
to its full capacity, and as the flight 
became general, I had some good shoot- 
ing over my decoys, keeping Patsy busy 
retrieving the dead birds. Although 
the canvasback is noted for its swift 
flight, the Dupont Smokeless proved to 
be quicker and in a few hours we had 
as:many ducks as true sportsmen 
should kill in one day. 
It was while we were returning from 
this day’s sport that an incident oc- 
curred which I must relate, not that 
I am given to bragging, but that I feel 
bound to recognize true merit at all 
times, whether it be in man, dumb 
brute, or the finished product of skilled 
labor. As we rode along, an occasional 
flock of ducks would pass over from 
one lake to another, yet never coming 
within good range. “Let’s give them 
a parting shot at long range,” said 
Dick. Now we had often vowed never 
to shoot above fifty yards, yet suiting 
action to the word, we climbed out and 
soon a small bunch of mallards came 
flying past, as usual out of range. 
Crack went my right barrel, and 
through the thin Dupont vapor I saw 
one of the hindmost ducks flinch and 
continue on. Giving my gun a steady 
Swing and a good lead I fired the left 
barrel. The great mallard in the lead 
turned a complete somersault, closed 
his wings and came down, striking the 
earth and rebounding into the air. 
“How was that for a shot?” said I, 
turning to my companions. “Bravo,” 
(Continued on page 496) 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 


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491 
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