{ETRY rege Lies Smithsonian Institution SSibraries Alexander Vyeumets LQ 4 6 Suth Secretary 1953 ae : mae i Rat ni , A big flight of northern ducks had come in during the night and everything looked favorable for a good shoot Courtesy of Shiplers, Photographers, Salt Lake City Come Duck Shooting with Me By Herbert Gardner Illustrated from Photographs The Knickerbocker Press New York 1917 CopyRiGHT, I917 BY HERBERT GARDNER The Knickerbocker Press, ew Work Tuts Book Is RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO ALL WHO ENJOY DUCK SHOOTENG ESPECIALLY ALL MY GOOD FRIENDS AND FELLOW MEMBERS OF MANY DUCK SHOOTING CLUBS, PAST AND PRESENT PREFACE THE preface in books is an ancient and honorable custom. The preface originally was either an excuse or an explanation for the existence of the book. It seems a shame to retire from the scene without leaving behind some sort of a memento of my fifty-six years of shooting experience. All kinds of American game, from tiny sandpipers to wild turkeys and from rabbits to buffalo, have fallen before my gun. Perhaps this delight in shooting will seem strange to many people but after all it was only a means to an end, the enjoy- ment of outdoors in wild places. Occasionally large bags of game are made and these are the ones that are talked and written about. But there is just as much real enjoyment remembering the many pleasant out- ings, on foot in the stubble field, or in the duck blind, where the returns were only half a dozen birds or even less. This is the excuse. Now for the explanation. Nearly all of the sayings of both Captain Bogardus and Abe Kleinman were taken verbatim from my notes written during the trip. “My First Flantlock’’ is true to ‘the ‘last detaal: It was my split-eared pony that won the race against the Indian. The series of Bear River duck sketches recall just a small part of the fun I have had shooting ducks. Often- times there is a certain sameness in duck shooting that Vv vi PREFACE I have endeavored to palliate, at least in part, by in- ducing “Jimmy,’’ who is twenty-three, to tell a few stories from his point of view. Any club member will tell you that the photographs of the Bear River shoot- ing scenes are the real thing. A sincere appreciation is due to the club members and guides who posed, all unknowingly, for these snap shots, as well as to other friends who sent in used or unused illustrations. Quail shooting sketches are innumerable and it’s difficult to leave the beaten path. In this one we cross the fence together and do our shooting among the trees and brambles in the good old-fashioned way. “Shooting the Salt Water Coot” will bring back pleasant remembrances to many old friends. Most people read a book first, and if they like it, turn back and read the preface. It will bea great compliment should they do this to mine. FG: COLORADO SPRINGS, 1917. CONTENTS SHOOTING DUCKS WITH CAPTAIN BOGARDUS AND ABE KLEINMAN My First FLINTLOCK GREEN FROGS AND A BOTTLE OF BEER. Bear River Series THE VICISSITUDES OF SINK-Box SHOOTING. Bear River Series A Few Ducks AND JIMMY’sS TRIP TO CALIFORNIA. Bear River Series THE NortH SHORE. Bear River Series JOHN’s IsLAND. Bear River Series . THE MupD QUEEN. Bear River Series THE Lost JoKE. Bear River Series ““ABouT A BUSHEL.’’ A QUAIL STORY. SHOOTING THE SALT-WATER Coot GATHERING Brirps’ EGGS, IN FLORIDA vil PAGE 16 27 44 63 74 88 104 124 134 149 158 aaeu CAC § ( Hs nee a mi ve ir ne 7 ye DAS) crue } . _ ve a AB | eS a a OL ae et a eoair bah Alea, i p Ta ei A ne en ae a a wy ait O ‘i | P salad Med fs kc , By ha tae vie ‘se vn : in Wn ne ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE “EVERYTHING LOOKED FAVORABLE FOR A GooD SHOOT”’ . , ; ‘ : . Frontispiece ‘“PUSHING”’ FOR DuCKsS : ; ; ; é 6 THE BUFFALO HERD . ‘ : : ‘ : 18 THE SAIL DOWN BEAR RIVER : ; ; PMR ue 2: THE CLUB LAUNCH WAITING AT CORINNE . Pa Se THE BLIND ON SINGLE POINT : s : NGM ie Tue Home oF THE BEAR RIVER Duck CLUB Ae eae “Ours WAS THE First BoAT DOWN RIVER THAT MORNING”. ; : ; : 2 Ei tate ‘“THp BiG FLocK OF CANVASBACKS WAS BOTH WILD AND SHY”’ 7 : ; é : : : 76 Two Limits OF TEAL . : : : : 5} SOO THE DuCKVILLE Duck CLUB : ; 6) *8Oo ORDINARY HUNTING SKIFF . : P 1p EOL AN AEROPLANE BOAT . : : : : . 104 THE MupD QUEEN ; ; : : . 104 Our NorTHERN FLIGHT VISITORS . 2 ‘ . 108 THE HAYSTACK BLIND ON PINTAIL NECK d J EZ 1X Xx ILLUSTRATIONS A BoAaT BLIND IN THE CENTER OF THE LAKE JIMMY IN THE SINK Box BETTY POINTING A BEVY TED ON A BEvy POINT PRINCE WHIRLING INTO A POINT . Cocoa PALMS : : : A P ‘ CocoA AND DATE PALMS RoyaL PALM : ‘ ; CABBAGE PALMS . : : : : FACING PAGE 126 126 140 140 140 158 158 158 158 Come Duck Shooting with Me hin ae ‘ be Ne Maa If PU ie F He ‘ Ne ane ‘ “Come Duck Shooting With Me” SHOOTING DUCKS WITH CAPTAIN BOGARDUS AND ABE KLEINMAN “Tf a man could be born when he’s old And gradually grow young, The wisdom he’d gain and the lore he’d attain Are not easily said or sung.” Sam WALTER Foss. ‘“Yrs, there’s excellent duck shooting within an hour’s ride from town.”’ ‘‘Do you mean to say there’s really good shooting as close as that to Chicago?”’ I asked. ‘‘Why, yes,’’ said the gun store man. ‘‘The shooting is good, of course, not as fine as it was a few years back, but it’s still good. Where do you hail from?’’ he added. ‘‘From New England,’ I replied. ‘*Did you ever shoot ducks outside of New England ?”’ ‘*No,’’ I said, ‘‘I never did.”’ ‘‘Well,’’ said the gun store man, ‘‘you’re going to have the greatest duck shooting experience of your life. No one can say how many ducks you will shoot, but if it’s a little windy you will get a hundred shots a day.” A hundred shots a day! and in my Eastern black duck experience, if a couple were bagged between sunset and dark, it was something to brag about the rest of the I 2 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” season. I wondered if the gun store man was stringing me. It seemed odd to hear of such shooting so near town. For even then, two years before the big fire, Chicago was a large city, big enough it seemed to me to round up all the ducks within an hour’s ride in the cars. Leaving the train at Gibson, it was only a short drive to ‘‘Jake’s Place.”” The house and landing were on the banks of the Calumet River. It was long after dark when I arrived and the duck hunters were paddling home from their day’s shoot. I walked down to the landing to watch them come in. The single shooter in each skiff tossed out on the little wharf from seventy to ninety ducks. Such shooting was astonishing. I pinched myself to see if I was really awake. Soon afterwards the bell rang, dinner was announced, and after introductions I sat at dinner with Captain Bogardus, the Champion Pigeon Shot of the World, Abe Kleinman, Kleinman’s brother, and three other well- known market shooters. The fame of these men was abroad in the land among the shooting fraternity. To me they were heroes. Imagine a Western delegate toa National Convention dining with the President of the United States and his cabinet and you can appreciate my feelings. My reception at first was a bit chilly. Market shooters had no particular love for amateurs. They were a nuisance to have round. But after dinner, when I brought out a bottle of ‘‘Old Jordan” and some cigars, the ice thawed considerably. Captain Bogardus finally agreed to take me out next day. A stranger alone could easily get lost in the marsh and besides would not know the proper shortcuts among the cane brakes bordering the river, nor where to go for the best shooting. The constant overflow made a wide marsh, full of wild rice, on both sides of the river. I was WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN 3 to give three dollars a day and all the ducks I killed. Bogardus agreed not to take his gun, but promised not only to show me game but to give me pointers how to shoot it. We were up at four next morning. In fifteen minutes each market shooter had his ducks tagged and packed in barrels. In two hours they would be on sale in Chicago. As we were paddling up the river half an hour later, I said to Bogardus, ‘‘How do you like market shooting? I should think it would be great fun.”’ ‘“‘Shooting is fun,’’ he replied, ‘‘but market shooting, while it is partly fun as you say, is after all work, and good hard work too. I am taking you out largely as a little rest. My shoulder is as sore as a boil.”’ “‘What is your daily program in market shooting?”’ I asked. ‘‘A market shooter don’t have a great deal of spare time on his hands,’ replied Bogardus. ‘‘The season is short and there are seven days in the week for us. Up at four every morning. Pack and ship ducks killed the day before. Shooting so close to town, with an hour express service, we are not obliged to ice our birds and that’s a great saving. I average clear above ex- penses, six dollars a day. Then a hot breakfast and off for the day’s shoot while it’s still dark, just as we did this morning. Shoot all day. Sometimes I dislike to kill so many ducks, but it’s all in the day’s work. Market shooters have to live.” ‘““Do you all know beforehand just where each man will locate for the day’s shoot?” I asked. “Yes,” answered Bogardus. “‘ We arrange ina general way the location where each man will shoot during the day so as not to interfere with each other. A man can shoot in the same place day after day if he wants to. 4 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” Our idea is to scatter out as much as possible and keep the ducks moving. The shooting is pretty fair all over.”’ ‘“‘Tt’s mostly morning and evening shooting, isn’t it?’ “*That’s it on calm, still days, but you get shooting all day when the wind blows.”’ ‘What do you do on calm days?”’ I asked. “If there is little wind and the sun is warm, there is not much shooting towards noon and we often get a couple of hours’ snooze in the middle of the day. When it gets too dark to shoot, we pick up and go home.’’ ‘“‘T suppose you’re pretty tired after supper and glad to get to bed.”’ “It would make our work mighty easy if that was possible, but our real work begins when we get in at night,’’ answered Bogardus. ‘“What do you call real work after rowing round and shooting all day?”’ ‘““The shooting part is all right, there’s some excite- ment about it, but when we get back from the day’s shooting, tired and wet, an hour or more after dark, there’s lots to do. Clean, tie together, and hang up the ducks we fetched in, to cool. Wash up, put on dry clothes, have dinner, and then spend the evening reload- ing these confounded shells. ”’ ““You don’t like reloading shells?’’ I said. ““You’re dead right,’’ replied Bogardus. ‘“‘I hate it, but market shooters cannot afford to buy loaded paper shells and throw them away after shooting. It’s a big saving for us to shoot brass shells. My load is five drams of powder and one and one half ounces of number six shot. I always start out each morning with three hundred loaded shells in my shell box.”’ ‘‘And you reload your shells in the evening after your day’s shooting is over?”’ WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN 5 ‘“That’s it exactly. I reload all the way from a hun- dred to two hundred and fifty shells, as many shells as I shot during the day, so as to have my shell box full next morning. Then I tumble into bed somewhere between eleven and one, to turn out at four next morn- ing, rain or shine, cold or warm. It’s a tough life per- haps, but I like it.”’ There was a touch of gray in the east. We could hear the swish of wings overhead as the ducks began to come in from their night’s feed in neighboring grain fields. ‘‘They’re moving good and early this morning,” remarked Bogardus. ‘‘Guess we will put out the de- coys at the Big Bend and shoot there a while.”’ Bogardus watched with great interest while I took my seven-pound breech loader, made by Tonks of Bos- ton, from its case. Picking it up he exclaimed, “It feels like a feather! What does it weigh?’’ I told him. ‘“What charge do you shoot in this popgun?”’ ‘‘Three drams and one ounce of shot,’’ I answered. “Well,” grinned Bogardus, “‘if I was a duck and you shot such a charge as that at me, I’d come down, take the gun away from you, and beat you over the head with Tes" “You don’t seem to like my double barrel,’’ I said. “What kind of a shotgun is your favorite?”’ ‘““One of those new ten-pound, ten-gauge breech load- ing Lefever guns is good enough for me,’’ he answered promptly. ‘‘They don’t get out of order and stand the racket in good shape. Some market gunners prefer Greeners; they are fine guns but the first cost sets you back a bunch of money out of your duck sales. Yes,” Bogardus continued, ‘‘Lefever guns are all right. With two shells in the gun and holding two shells in the fingers of my right hand, I can get in four shots at a 6 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” flock.”” The gun he mentioned was the old style Le- fever, the kind that opened by pushing up a lever hang- ing in front of the trigger guard. We had a bully shoot that morning. It was a day I shall always remember. The twenty-eight mallard de- coys made a nice showing in the bend of the river and our blind was hidden on the point of the bend where Bogardus said, ‘‘We’ll get ’em both coming and going.”’ The skiff, hidden in the reeds, was used to pick up the fallen ducks before they drifted away. It was exciting to see so many ducks. It was like the duck stories I had read and hardly believed possible, but we did not pick up many ducks to start with. I was in such a quiver of nerves that I missed my first three shots. ‘‘A little tangled up, ain’t you?”’ asked Bogardus. “I should say so,”’ I replied. ‘‘You’re right about the gun and these old shells don’t seem of much ac- count either.”’ | ‘“‘Don’t get sore,”’ grinned Bogardus. ‘“‘I’d miss a dozen shots if I could feel a little of your enthusiasm. The gun and shells are all right but possibly something might be said about the pointing of the gun.”’ ‘“What do you mean?”’ I asked. ‘Well, you know I sat right behind you, and every time you shot you aimed straight at the duck. Re- member a flying duck don’t stay long in the same place. You must aim a little ahead of them and shoot in the air where they ain’t.’’ Turning round I saw a big mallard coming towards the decoys, promising a cross shot at not over thirty- five yards. Bogardus saw him too and whispered, ‘“Here comes one; take it easy, aim straight at the duck, then throw your aim eighteen inches ahead of his bill and shoot quick.’’ The mallard flew by, offering an “Captain Bogardus said I would like ‘ pushing,’ and I did. The mallards or teal would rise ahead of us, from pond holes in the overflowed marsh or hidden narrow channels through the reeds as our boat approached, and start hurriedly away in a straight but rapidly rising flight. It was not unlike the in- animate target shooting of to-day ” Courtesy of Shiplers, Salt Lake City WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN 7 easy cross shot; I did exactly as Bogardus said, and as the gun cracked, down came the duck. I felt a hundred per cent. better. The birds, mostly incomers and side shots, were fairly close, much more so than they are nowadays. I missed a couple of incomers, and Bogardus said, ‘‘An overhead incomer is an easy shot, but if you shoot directly at the duck, he flies ahead and the shot passes behind him. You must aim at the duck, then raise the barrels upward a little until the duck is hidden and then shoot quick.’’ After a try or two I got the idea and had no more trouble with ‘‘incomers”’ afterwards. Bogardus was a wonder in marking down ducks that fell in the tall reeds and almost invariably found them. This added greatly to my bag as I never would have retrieved half of them. All reeds looked alike to me. My score during the morning flight was twenty-one; Bogardus could easily have killed twice as many. ‘‘Pushing”’ for ducks is great fun for the shooter, but perhaps not so much for the pusher. When the morn- ing flight was over, Bogardus said he thought I would enjoy ‘“‘pushing’’ and I did. I sat in the bow of the skiff, gun in hand, while Bogardus poled and pushed through the most likely places to find feeding or resting ducks. It was very pretty shooting. The mallards or teal would rise, splashing from the water, springing a dozen feet in the air, and then start off in astraight but rapidly rising flight. It was not unlike the inanimate target shooting of to-day. The front and left hand shots were the easiest. The right handers that turned and flew back behind the boat were more difficult. I remember one cock mallard that rose badly fright- ened twenty yards away and after scattering the spray in every direction started off like a cannon ball. I gave 8 ‘COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” him first the right and then the left barrel and made two perfectly good misses. ““Now throw the gun at him!” laughed Bogardus. “You might get him that way.’’ Bogardus pushed with hardly a stop except to pick up birds, for a couple of hours. He was a giant of a man, six feet two, and weighed over two hundred pounds of bone and muscle. He did not seem a bit tired when we stopped for lunch at noon. After lunch with cigars going we got talking about difficult shots and Bogardus said he thought flight shooting on single teal about the most difficult proposition he knew in duck shooting, whereupon I asked: “Do you aim the same way you told me to when you shoot ducks?” ‘Well, no, not exactly,” he replied. ‘‘I am a pretty quick shot; as near as I can tell I aim ten inches to three feet in front of the duck’s bill, according to the duck’s speed and distance. I don’t bring my gun to a stand- still when I shoot as you do, but keep the gun barrels moving along with the duck when I fire. The way I taught you is the easiest for beginners. If you have a natural gift for shooting you will find it will come out with practice.”’ ‘““There’s another thing,’”’ I said, ‘‘that I am curious about. ”’ ““What is it?’’ Bogardus asked. ‘““Do you shoot with one or both eyes open?”’ Bogardus laughed as he answered, ‘‘Hanged if I always know on ducks, sometimes one eye open and sometimes both, according to the position of the bird. In shooting pigeons I can safely say I always shoot with both eyes open.”’ As we were rowing towards the place selected for the WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN 9 evening shoot, Bogardus said, ‘‘You’ve caught on to shooting ducks first rate for your first real day. You know now how to handle side shots and incomers and understand that you must always aim a little above all ducks when they are frightened or leaving the decoys, as they are then always rising in their flight as they fly from you. These three pointers are the three rudi- ments to be remembered in shooting ducks over decoys.” ‘““How about flight shooting’”’ I asked. ‘Flight shooting is different. The birds are flying high and much faster than in decoy shooting. Prac- tice alone can teach you how to judge distance, rapidity of flight, and where to aim in flight shooting; you have to learn from experience. Shooting to my mind is a little like living. Overcoming obstacles makes the man. Missed shots make the incentive for shooting. There would be little excitement if you could kill every time you fired.”’ Four o’clock found us in a marsh of reeds mixed with grass and open muddy places. We shot from a low blind of reeds. The evening flight began late but it was something to dream about while it lasted. The ducks came in flocks, bunches, pairs, and singles. Bo- gardus made four doubles running with my gun and at last owned up that for a toy it shot fairly well, although as he said, ‘‘I miss the bumps my shoulder gets from those five drams of powder in my old ten gauge.”’ We had nearly seventy ducks that»night and every market shooter thought Bogardus shot them. There was no game limit in those days and the man that killed the greatest number was the lion of the evening. One night after dinner, Abe Kleinman, instead of starting reloading shells, sat down beside me by the stove. I had no birds to clean or shells to load and 10 ‘COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” loved to smoke after, what was to me, a hard day’s work. I gave Kleinman a cigar and he lighted up and sat quietly smoking. At last he asked: ““Did you have good luck to-day?”’ ‘“Yes,’’ I said, ‘“‘with my Eastern ideas I think a dozen game birds of any kind a good bag and to-day I shot forty-two ducks.”’ ‘‘A dozen birds a day is no shoot,’’ said Kleinman, thoughtfully, ‘““‘but a dozen ducks at one shot isn’t bad.”’ He smoked a while longer and then suddenly said: ‘“How would you like to shoot with me to-morrow?” “‘T’d like nothing better,’’ I told him. ‘All right,’ said Kleinman, ‘‘it’s a wack.” Everybody was surprised at breakfast next morning when in response to a question I said I was to shoot with Abe, as Kleinman rarely took anyone out. He was generally the first away in the morning and the last in at night, a silent man in a crowd, but I found him not only pleasant but talkative. As we walked down to the landing it looked like a storm; a few drops of rain were falling and a high wind was blowing the clouds in great driving masses. ‘““You better go back and get your rubber coat,”’ said Kleinman. “‘T have it with me,’’ I said. ‘‘All right, here’s the skiff; it’s a bit small. I had it built for one man and extra narrow to get through the reeds easily, but it will carry two at a pinch.”’ Kleinman rowed away, a quick active stroke for three miles without speaking, and then took his push pole and shoved the boat some little distance from the river through the marsh grass growing in the water until we came to a large pond hole. ‘WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN II ‘‘There will be fine shooting here to-day,” said Klein- man. “Tt sounds like it,’ said I. It was still dark as a pocket and the wind was blowing hard but every now and then I could hear the whistle of wings going over. ‘‘Here’s the stand,’ said Kleinman. ‘‘I killed ninety- six ducks in it one day last week.”’ The stand was just a jumbled up pile of reeds, that had originally been stuck up in a small circle. Klein- man picked them over and soon had enough set up to make a new stand. They mingled with the growing reeds and tall marsh grass so well as to be hardly noticeable from a little distance. There were two or three big flattened bundles of grass and reeds on the floor of the stand, enough to keep the legs of my canvas stool from sinking too deeply in the mud. Eighteen decoys were put out in the pond about twenty yards from the stand and then Kleinman said, “Well! You're all set. I’m going to shoot about half a mile farther up the river, but I’ll be down about noon and we'll lunch and have a smoke together,’’ and off he went. The weather made the ducks uneasy; they were con- stantly alighting in the marsh and then rising seemingly in search of company. Eternal vigilance means suc- cess in this kind of duck shooting. The birds were coming from all quarters. Not exactly decoying but coming within long gunshot of the decoys, apparently wondering why the decoys did not rise and fly about with them. I was watching three mallards coming straight in from the east when—Whish! Half a dozen teal, coming from behind, went over my head within twenty feet. It was really too impudent, I could not stand it. My gun was at my shoulder; at the shot the 12 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” teal jumped a dozen feet into the air and made sail in different directions. I thought surely I would get several but only one fell. Four mallards a hundred yards out, seeing the decoys, veered in on a dip to perhaps forty-five yards, just to see what was the attraction in the pond for those eighteen decoys. Five feet ahead of the leader was surely far enough. Bang! went my gun and down came the duck behind the leader. My lead should have been eight feet ahead instead of five. Looking southerly I saw a flock of teal coming. I counted twenty teal in the bunch as they came on, but when they swung round and headed for the decoys, the air seemed chock full of teal and I knew I ought to get at least four or five. I tried to remember all the rules laid down in the books for just such cases. Then I fired, aiming at the middle of the bunch. Again a single teal fell. As the rest of the flock jumped into the air I aimed two feet over the nearest and down he came. It was my first double of the day. I fired seventy-five shells that morning and had thirty-one ducks piled up in a heap back of the stand. A wounded bird had to be retrieved quickly or it got into the tall reeds and was lost. I found a dozen with- out mishap. Perhaps this made me careless, for sud- denly I stepped in a hole, lost my balance, and fell flat on my face in the mud and water. Both were soft. The wind lulled about ten and the ducks quieted down, affording only an occasional shot. Along about noon I heard steps splashing in the water. It was Kleinman. During lunch he told me about his gun, another ten- pound, ten-gauge fieldpiece. ‘‘ Bogardus,”’ he said, “‘shot a gun with a three and a quarter inch drop. I had been shooting a muzzle loader and stuck to it as long as I WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN 13 possibly could, but when the boys with breech loaders began bringing three birds to my two I ordered a breech loader.’? Then suddenly he said, ‘“‘Look east.” A dozen mallards were coming. They came to the decoys in splendid style. As they came within shot I dropped one; the rest dodged in every direction and I was slow in getting in my second barrel; finally I fired and a duck fell. .‘‘Humph,” said Kleinman, ‘‘they will fly into it sometimes.’”’ Kleinman walked out and came back with the duck. ‘That was a long shot,’’ he announced; “‘seventy-two steps; we market men rarely shoot at such a distance, can’t afford to waste ammunition. You must have a chokebore gun.”’ ‘The left barrel is full choke, the right half choke,’’ I said. “T thought it must be from that shot,” remarked Kleinman. ‘‘One barrel of my gun is open, the other half choke; later on in the season, when the ducks get wilder and the canvasbacks and redheads begin com- ing, I use my full choke pair of barrels; but as I was saying, I ordered my breech loader with a three and a quarter inch drop, like the gun Bogardus has. When it came it had a two and a half inch drop. I was as mad as a hornet.”’ ‘‘What did you do?”’ I asked. ‘“‘Nothing, kept the gun. The longer I had it the more I liked it. You see I shoot pretty quick. I see the duck, note his direction and velocity of flight, and then shoot, calculating my shot and the duck will reach a certain spot together, as they generally do. I never see the sight on my new gun and I can shoot it quicker and like it better than my old one.”’ “T think you and Bogardus could shoot pretty 14 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” straight with any old gun,’’ I said, and Kleinman smiled. ‘‘Do you know what they call a good duck shot down in Chesapeake Bay?” I asked. ‘“‘Chesapeake Bay? that’s where they shoot out of those ‘coffin’ boats isn’t it?’’ said Kleinman. ‘Yes, that’s the style down there. They call a man a good duck shot in Chesapeake Bay who can lie on his back in his ‘coffin’ boat, with one gun in his hands and two other double-barreled guns beside him, and when a bunch of redheads come to his decoys can kill a duck with each of his six shots.” Kleinman laughed. ‘‘They say a whole lot some- times about people and things that are a thousand miles away. I’ve heard of one chap down there who has done it a time or two, but I'll bet he can’t do it as a steady thing.’”’ ‘‘What do you call first-rate shooting on ducks?” I asked. ‘‘Well,’’ said Kleinman, ‘‘take ’em as they come and don’t pick shots, and seventy-five ducks for a hundred shells is pretty good work. Of course, I could do much better than that if I picked easy shots.” ‘“What makes all this racket I hear, this Kak! Kak! Kak! noise, every time a gun is fired? It’s the funniest sound I ever heard on a marsh.”’ “‘Tt’s these birds they call rail,’’ answered Kleinman. ‘“There are more of them on the marsh to-day than I ever saw before; they must have come in last night on their way south. They will stay around now until the first hard frost and then every last one will go south that night. Queer isn’t it, how those little birds that hardly seem able to fly fifty feet here in the marsh can fly twelve hundred miles to escape cold weather?”’ WITH BOGARDUS AND KLEINMAN 15 The wind went down that afternoon and the shooting was poor. The ducks were satisfied to stay quietly and feed. The evening flight that night, however, was a wonder. The ducks did not come in until almost dark. I shot a few but soon it became too dark to find them. The ducks came in thousands; several times they dropped down within ten feet of the stand. You could hear the splash all around in the water where they were alighting. Suddenly the whole bunch of ducks got up with a roar of wings. I heard heavy footsteps splashing in the dis- tance. Kleinman was coming with the boat. We put my ducks in and then walked to the river. There we both got in and Kleinman remarked, ‘‘This is a good big load, two of us and all these ducks, but if your hair is -parted in the middle and you sit perfectly still, I will guarantee to get you home all right.’”’ The present generation has forgotten both of these men. They were splendid types of market shooters. This in their day and generation was no sin. The sup- ply of game was apparently inexhaustible and the de- mand for it came from the wealthiest people in the land. The sale of game in most States is now forbidden by law and the market shooter has followed the buffalo, but I shall always count it a privilege that I had the pleasure of knowing and shooting with such splendid shots and good fellows as Bogardus and Kleinman. MY FIRST FLINTLOCK NEARLY everybody has a hobby of some sort. Your business may not satisfy, but your hobby always fills the bill. There’s a lot of satisfaction in a good healthy hobby. It may be collecting coins, postage stamps, or birds’ eggs. Raising blooded horses or cattle, or even the humble hen. Possibly it’s a scheme to aid your fel- low-man, or to own a magazine to give free rein to your ideas of what grooves the world should runin. If you are wealthy and tabooed by society, a hobby for collect- ing mortgages on the homes of society leaders gives both personal satisfaction as well as good financial re- turns; something unusual in hobbies, as they are gener- ally both costly and wasteful. My hobby is firearms. Very few of us who have this hobby can pass a sporting goods store window without stopping to look in. All manner and fashions of guns and pistols, old or new, have a never failing fascination at all times and in all places. My first firearm, a brass-barreled pistol, costing six bits, was purchased at the age of eleven. It was a far cry from this pistol to a fourteen-hundred-dollar shot- gun, the finest made-to-order gun I could get. . No such cost could possibly be put into plain gun. It was orna- mented from stock to muzzle. Five hundred dollars’ worth of gold was used in inlaid work, while the expense for a twelvemonth of skilled labor was as much more. A running golden stag with branching antlers, pursued 16 MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 17 by a brace of hounds, was wonderfully done. The stag was two inches long. There were thirty-four groups of game inlaid in gold, both at rest and in flight. The gun now occupies the leading place in an artist-sports- man’s collection. Itisagem asa work of art, for [have reviewed and studied it again and again for many years after I had ‘‘let go” of it. Other guns I knew well and respected, but this one was my dearest possession and all I have left now is my memory of it. I recall vividly another gun: it was an old flintlock owned by one of my guides in Florida. He had never owned any other gun. His father died when he was fifteen and left it tohim. The gun had a long thin stock with a receptacle in it for patches, had a set trigger, and weighed seven and a half pounds. The hammer held in its grip the reddest flint I ever saw. Originally a rifle, the rifling had long since worn smooth and the present load was a solid ball with a leather patch around it and three buckshot. It shot true up to fifty yards, but beyond that distance it was uncertain. Modern guns make no such noise as ‘‘fizz-bang,’”’ but it exactly describes a flintlock. We were running bears, the ordinary black bears of the country, one day in Florida with half a dozen dogs. The bears finally took to water in a swamp and swam across to an island where both climbed the same tree. Being nearest the swamp I reached the pond first. The water was the color of ink. I had killed three water moccasin snakes, that crawled out of the same pond, within half an hour and balked at entering the water. The guide ran up and holding his gun and powder horn over his head waded across although the water was up to his neck, and shot both bears. The ““fizz-bang”’ of his gun was very much in evidence. 2 18 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” The next of my gun children was an old Hawkins flint- lock rifle. The gun came into my possession in a cu- rious manner. It was the last month of 1872. We were busy on the cattle ranch endeavoring to prevent our half-wild Texas long horns from straying into either Canada or Mexico, when news came that buffalo were plentiful on the eastern plains of Colorado. A party of five was made up for a buffalo hunt. I didn’t own the Hawkins rifle yet. We found the first buffalo twenty miles east of Las Animas and fifteen miles north of the Arkansas River. The wagon stopped and every- body on horseback advanced until discovered and then charged the herd of about two hundred animals. The big herds, visible as far as the eye could reach, were not in evidence in my time. I had traded a saddle, an old pistol, and ten bushels of potatoes some months before for the split-eared Indian pony I was riding. I knew he was a fast runner and a good cow pony, but that day he proved himself a trained buffalo hunter as well; carrying me alongside the buffalo, to the envy of many of my companions whose horses were fearful of the wild- looking, snorting brutes. My only arm was a big six shooter, an old style Colt’s dragoon pistol—a cap affair that shot paper cartridges holding powder and ball. You broke the paper end and rammed the cartridge . home with the rammer attached to the gun. It took some time to reload. My luck, owing to my pony, was great. My first victim was a fine bull. Like all green hands I had picked the biggest buffalo in the bunch. It took three shots to down him. He had a splendid robe but the toughness of his flesh when we took the hide off was surprising. One shot did for a fine fat heifer. Then a three-year-old bull came out of the herd in my direc- The buffalo herd on their native plains. The animal facing you “ on guard” is a fine specimen of a buffalo bull MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 19 tion with his tail standing straight up. He was mad and looked it as he came towards us. My pony whirled as the buffalo charged and as it went by I presented it with the last two bullets in my pistol. My pony, with sides heaving, was perfectly willing to stop while I reloaded, although his ears were cocked and his eyes watched the departing herd. Buffalo run at a lumbering looking but really fast lope and these were out of sight in the rolling prairie before I could reload, although I could hear the shots and excited yells of my companions in the distance. The chase was most thrilling, but when I rode back and looked at the three monsters I had killed, they were not especially attractive. It’s no small job to dress and skin buffalo. Where large game is generally found, there are trees where carcasses of game can be hung up and dressed. On the plains this business was done on the ground, rolling the animal over, after the hide on one side was taken off. It was not a pretty job. The hide does not slip off like that of adeer. One man holds the hide tight and pulls on it, while another cuts the skin from the meat with a sharp knife. The hindquarters of the heifer I had killed were brought in to supply the camp with meat. That night was cold, nearly zero. The buffalo meat froze solid. The cook, while the frozen meat lasted, used to call out: ‘Grub pile ready in fifteen minutes, if you want buffalo steaks go and git it.’’ It was no easy job to “‘git it.” The meat had to be sawed out in slabs. Well! perhaps we were young, but those buffalo steaks were certainly the best ever. Buffalo are stupid. Shooting them on foot when hidden in an old buffalo wallow or behind sagebrush was about as sporting a proposition as resting a rifle 20 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” on the fence and shooting cows in a field. Professional buffalo hunters always shot on foot. Then the animals fell inside a comparatively small area and it was easy for the wagon squad to find and skin them. A buffalo shot low down behind the fore shoulder is hit in the heart. He stands still a minute, then begins to sway sideways, and finally falls dead without noise or strug- gle. The balance of the herd show no alarm until an animal is badly wounded and begins struggling, then they become frightened and run. The professional rarely chased buffalo on horseback as it strings the bodies widely apart over the plain and makes too much extra work for the skinners. It always seemed to me that the Government winked at the slaughter of the buffalo on account of the Indians. The animals provided them with home, food, and rai- ment; tents, robes, and meat. With plenty of buffalo on the plains, they could get supplies to continue the fight against the settlers. When the buffalo went, the Indian went also—upon a reservation. A few days, hunting filled our wagon with meat. We saved the robes, hindquarters, tongues, and humps of the buffalo. They said the hump was a great delicacy much relished by old timers. It wasamixture of fat and meat. A buffalo round steak was much more appetizing. There is surprisingly little meat on a buffalo, consider- ing his appearance and bulk while alive. Our first night’s camp on the homeward journey was planned to be on the banks of the Purgatoire River, or Picketwire as the cow punchers called it, that empties into the Arkansas River. The first discoverer of the river, a French trapper, found it full of quicksands and had much difficulty in crossing with his horses. He therefore named it Purgatoire. A cattle man would MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 21 have called it by a short word of four letters. The Frenchman was more polished. Crossing the brow of the last roll in the prairie, before reaching the river, we discovered a band of Ute Indians encamped. We drove three hundred yards up the river, above them, and made camp for the night. They were a hunting party, and had squaws along to dress the game. The warriors did no menial work. Being at war with the plains Indians, they did not dare to go far from the mountains, their native home. They had only killed a few antelope. The buffalo were all in the enemies’ country. That evening the Indians, squaws and all, called on us. They sat on one side of the fire and we on the other. We gave the warriors tobacco and two cups of sugar to the squaws. No one said anything for some time, but the Indians’ black eyes took in everybody and everything about the camp. Finally one Indian said: ‘‘You have heap game.”’ One of our men answered, ‘‘Not much, little.’’ Then the Indian said, ‘‘ Your pony good?” ‘‘No, pony no good, played out.”’ The Indian asked, ‘‘Ha! you run horse race?”’ Our man would not take a dare from an Indian and replied. ‘‘Yes, morning, run horse race.’’ After the Indians left the question was, ‘‘What horse shall we run?’’ Bill Fessenden had perhaps the fastest pony, but Bill had ridden him the entire trip and this work with only grass to eat had weakened him down considerably. Tom Foster had the best-conditioned pony in our bunch. All the horses but his were turned loose every night to graze, their front legs hobbled to 22 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” prevent wandering. Foster’s pony was a known ‘‘back tracker,’’ sure to make tracks back to the home ranch if he got loose. He was kept close to the wagon every night, picketed out by a long rope to get what grass he could, always in readiness to round up any of the loose horses, should they stray. Foster fed his pony corn night and morning. Well, we were in for a race and had to start something. Foster’s pony seemed our one best bet. We were arranging our blankets around the fire for the night when Sam Jacks started singing his customary evening song, ‘‘Buffalo bull come down the mountain Long time ago.”’ Then both lines were repeated, the last three words forming the chorus. Sam told me it was the oldest song of the plainsman and trapper. He said he knew three hundred verses. The song first describes the doings of the buffalo bull, then the trapper who slays the buffalo recounts his exploits, and it finally ends by the trapper singing of his other adventures in both love and war. The manner of its verse can be easily changed accord- ing to the personal adventures of the singer. The song was evidently copied from the ones the Indians used to sing in their war dances, telling the story of their suc- cesses by both word and action. Sam Jacks was a small, wiry, and perhaps the dirtiest man I ever knew. He was over sixty years old (this seemed a great age to me at that time), had beenascout and trapper on both plains and mountains for thirty years. Heand his partner while trapping beaver in the smountains, some years before, had been ambushed and MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 23 shot full of arrows by Indians. Both were scalped, left for dead, and everything they had carried away. Sam recovered sufficiently to crawl a couple of miles on hands and knees to a cache he had of food and as he said, ‘‘I had more health than anything else and so I got well.”’ His partner was killed. Of all his adventures he was proudest of getting scalped. The scalp came from the place on the head where a man first begins to grow bald. The showing of naked skull was roughly round and about three and a half inches in diameter. Like all old-time trappers he wore his hair long and the scar was nearly hidden. Sam told me he was conscious but never moved a muscle when the Indian ran his knife around his head and then yanked his scalp off. He also made the surprising statement that there was very little pain in being scalped. He always desired to find the Indian that scalped him, probably for no good purpose. Whenever Sam got full, he would weep and cry, ‘‘I want my scalp,” just as a small boy does when a larger boy steals his candy. Early next morning the Indians appeared on horse- back, dressed in their best beaded deerskins and with their faces painted. A horse race like a buffalo chase was an occasion in their monotonous lives. They look at it much as a boy regards a circus. After consider- able of a powwow the match was made for a pony a side. Our pony and the Indian pony were tied, heads together, and left until after the race. Then the winner would take them. Our orders were as it was winter, ‘“Don’t bet your blankets but everything else goes.”’ The Indians had a five-dollar bill and four silver Mexi- can dollars. They laid it on the ground. We had just enough cash to cover it. An Indian would place a 24 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” revolver on the ground, one of our men would cover it with his revolver. It wasa bet. Nothing was said. The boys bet saddles against Indian blankets and Foster bet his other pony. I had a Spencer carbine and noticed one of the Indians looking at it. His gun was in a buckskin case. Finally touching my gun he said, ‘‘Bet?”’ My opinion of the abilities of Foster’s horse were not any too high, so IJ said, ‘‘Indian pony heap good.”’ The Indian looked me square in the face and said in English: “Ugh! Injun pony dam poor.” “‘See gun,”’ said I. He took his gun out of his fringed buckskin case and it was the Hawkins flintlock. It looked odd to see a warrior out with a hunting party with a flintlock gun as they generally carried up-to-date modern arms. A Henry rifle was their favorite. The moment I saw the flintlock gun I wanted it. So I said, ‘‘Gun good, bet good,” laid my carbine on the ground, and he put his flintlock across it. It’s etiquette among Indians, when you make a bet,—and no bet goes unless stakes are put up,—to place the articles wagered on the ground. No one goes near them or touches them until after the race when the winner picks up his winnings. It was a three-hundred-yard straightaway race. This distance was measured in a level place along the trail. The horses to go from a standing start at the report of a pistol. Foster who rode for our outfit had a blanket strapped on for a saddle. The Indian, a young brave, fifteen pounds lighter than Foster, rode naked except his breech clout. His pinto pony had only a deerskin thong fastened around its lower MY FIRST FLINTLOCK 25 jaw. The Indian on his pony made a wild barbaric picture. The Indian rider placed the end of the deerskin thong under his left thigh. Then with a quirt in each hand nodded he was ready. Foster was on the line and the starter fired his pistol. The Indian pony got away first, his rider whipping him with both quirts at every stride and yelling truly like a wild Indian. The rest of the Indians rode at his side but a little behind him yelling Ay! Yi! Yi! Yi! with all their might. Foster was half a length behind at the hundred yards, a head behind at two hundred yards, and won the race by a head. He drily remarked as he dismounted, ‘“The corn told in the last hundred yards.’’ The cow- boy judge at the finish looked at the Indian judge and pointing at Foster said, ‘‘He first,’’ and held up one finger. The Indians held a consultation for about two minutes, while their judge explained the end of the race, and then rode away to their camp without a word. The Indian is a great gambler and a good loser. The boys joked a lot about the wonderful gun I had won. But I was satisfied. The gun was a silent story tome. I tried to imagine the adventures the rifle could tell of pioneer days. One day Tom Tobin, a contem- porary of Kit Carson and one of the last of the old-time scouts and trappers, visited the ranch. He told me the gun was the real thing. The five small notches cut on top of the stock stood for ‘‘good”’ Indians. The eleven notches underneath the stock stood for grizzly bears. Killing grizzlies, single handed with a flintlock muzzle loader, shooting round balls thirty-two to the pound, was considered a feat worthy of record. Tobin added, ‘‘Indians are practical. To them the glory and spoils of war are the scalps and plunder. It 26 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” was sentiment that made the old-time scout cut a notch on his gun when he killed a foe. Indians have no senti- ment and don’t care for notches.”’ ‘“Where do you suppose he got the gun?’’ I asked. ‘‘T’m afraid,”’ replied Tobin, “‘that some Indian an- cestor of his raised some poor trapper’s scalp, way back yonder.’”’ GREEN FROGS AND A BOTTLE OF BEER “‘In dreams of the night I hear the call Of wild ducks scudding across the lake. We enter the blind as the crimson flush Of morn illumines the hills with light, And patiently await the first mad rush Of pinions soaring in airy flight.” Wm. HENry DRUMMOND. IT was a great relief to get out of the dusty train and board the launch for the sail down Bear River, in Utah, with the prospect ahead of a few weeks of good duck shooting. It was a perfect Indian summer day in middle October, warm and pleasant with no wind. A blue haze, softened by distance, partly veiled the dis- tant snow-capped mountains on both sides of the North Lake. The banks of the river were flat and uninviting, but relieved in places by rows of stunted trees, from which most of the leaves had fallen. Deserted magpie nests, great bunches of tangled twigs as big as a bushel basket, perched among the higher branches of every other one of the scattered trees, were the most prom- inent objects in the nearby landscape. A colony of green herons camping out in several of the larger trees tossed themselves, one after the other, into the air as we passed and shuffled away in an awkward flight to other trees, where they alighted, rocking on their feet with a great waving of balancing wings, before coming to a standstill. The water was high and the launch started up small bunches of ducks, mostly redheads and 27 28 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” mallards, at almost every bend in the river. Best of all Captain Joe said there were plenty of ducks on both marsh and lake with more coming in on their southern migration every day. The shooters were all out on the marsh engaged in the day’s sport when the launch reached the shack and tied up at the landing. It was after four o’clock before the sportsmen began straggling in, most of their boats carry- ing the day’s limit of ducks. Jimmy,my guide for several years, was one of the last to arrive. The gentleman he had guided the past week was going home in the morn- ing and it was my good fortune to again have Jimmy as guide, during my stay. Jimmy did not think very highly of my suggestion that we start at four o’clock and have a try at the early morning flight. ‘‘It’s nothing but enthusiasm,” he said, ‘‘getting up at such an early hour. The morning flight is over before sunrise, just as the evening flight begins after sunset, and it’s against the law to shoot ducks before sunrise or after sunset. But it’s your first morning and we will start at four o’clock if you say so. It will take us two hours to row down to the south sink box where you want to shoot and that means it will be sunrise before we get there.”’ Half an hour before the first gray dawn of the follow- ing morning found us rowing down the river towards the east lake. It was pitch dark and very chilly but rowing is fine exercise to keep off the cold. Carp of all sizes were rising around the boat, not making merely rings in the water, but jumping their length in the frosty air and falling back with a mighty splash. From the noise they made some of the carp were champion heavy- weights. Now and then as we approached nearer the lake a low quack from some sleepy mallard hidden in the sulejunou pedded-mous 9} 330K “IoATY Ieog JO YyNour oy} }e¥ aye] ysvq jo Suluurgeq oy} Surmoys ‘aay Ieog UMOp [Ies aU], GREEN FROGS AND A BOTTLE OF BEER 29 reeds showed that a few at least of the morning flight had eaten their fill in distant grain fields and returned to the marsh again. It was so dark that I thought it might brighten things up a bit to be a little sociable. So I said to Jimmy: ‘‘Who was the chap you guided the past week?”’ ‘‘He was a slim young fellow of about twenty, with light blue eyes and yellow corn tossel hair,” replied Jimmy. ‘‘He came from the East and looked so green you wouldn’t really blame cows for biting him. He seemed mighty innocent at first, but looks are sometimes awfully deceiving. He and I chatted awhile and finally the blue-eyed chap said, ‘How do you make a living in this desolate looking country?’ ‘*“T’m just proud to be a hayseed,’ I told him. ‘I own a hay ranch forty miles from here and raise considerable hay—there’s always a good demand for hay. Then I do some teaming with my four horses and every fall I come down here shooting a little and guiding a good deal. There’s good money and lots of fun in guiding.’ ‘Did your father live here?’ asked Blue Eyes. ‘**Ves,’ I said, ‘father took up the ranch, but before that he went to sea for many years. Sailed to China, India, and all over. Saw the whole world. Of course being an old sailor he told wonderful stories of sights he had seen and things he had done in foreign parts.’ ‘What were his favorite stories?’ asked Blue Eyes. ‘““Well,’ Isaid, ‘he liked best to yarn about a two-year whaling voyage he made once up Alaska way.’ “What did he tell you about it?’ ‘“‘T looked round at Blue Eyes. Heseemedso darned green I just thought I’d turn loose the biggest yarn I could think of. So I said his favorite story was about catching a great big whale off the Alaska coast. 30 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” ““That sounds interesting,’ said Blue Eyes, ‘let’s hear it.’ ‘*“Father’s vessel,’ I told him, ‘was sailing up and down off the Alaska shore. Of course they always kept a careful watch out for whales and this time the lookout was sitting on top of the mast, watching for them through his spyglass. Suddenly the lookout yelled, ‘‘She blows, blows, blows.’”’ ‘““““ Where away?’ sung out father who was on deck. ‘““““Nor’ nor’west by west,’’ answered the lookout. ‘Father ran a little way up the ladder, that was lean- ing against the mast.’ ‘Ladders don’t lean against the mast on board ship,’ interrupted Blue Eyes, ‘they are fastened to the side of the vessel and also halfway up the mast, so they cannot possibly fall or blow down. ‘““Well, we won’t bother about that now,’ said I, ‘Father went halfway up the ladder before he saw the whale. “““Fe’s a hundred feet long,” called father. ‘‘All boats away.” ‘“““They lowered the boats and father was in the bow of the first boat with six men behind him rowing and a chap standing up in the stern steering with a long oar. Father often told me just where the whale was, it was either “‘down to looward”’ or ‘‘up to port.’” I never could remember which. Father had a whole lot of rope coiled up in a barrel, with one end of it fastened to a harpoon. ‘“““Pretty soon father ordered the men to row slow and careful and when close to the whale, father threw the harpoon and yelled ‘‘Back all.’’ The men at the oars backed water as hard as they could to get out of the way of the whale. The harpoon hit the whale plump in the middle. The whale thrashed round a bit and then dove straight down. The rope that was fastened to the har- GREEN FROGS AND A BOTTLE OF BEER 31 poon ran out of the barrel so fast that the side of the boat began to smoke and father had to pour water on it to keep the boat from burning up.’ ‘Oh, come off the perch,’ said Blue Eyes. ‘The rope couldn’t smoke nor could it possibly set the boat on fire.—Goodness,”’ said Jimmy to me, ‘‘I had to laugh then, because Blue Eyes would not believe the only true thing I had said so far.”’ “““Tt smoked all right,’ I told him, ‘but pretty soon the rope stopped running out and in about two minutes the whale shot up almost his full length out of the water, and if there was one, there were five hundred frogs came Swarming out of his mouth, great big green ones that would weigh two pounds apiece.’ ‘“““Tf there was one,’ said Blue Eyes softly, looking at me with a grin. ‘“““Oh, well,’ says I, and I had to say something to save my face, ‘I’ll bet I’ve told that yarn five hundred times and no one ever caught on before. They always begin to argue about those frogs and how in Sam Hill they ever got ’way out in the ocean off Alaska. Most of them finally conclude the whale must have gone in somewhere near shore and had a frog-feed. Anyway, I never did like a story without any foundation. Give me a story or a building with a good foundation and then you’ve got something to goon. It always makes me sore when those condemned hogs of mine get under the house in the night and keep me awake scratching their backs on the floor beams.’ “““Well,’ said Blue Eyes to me kinder soft, ‘your story reminds me of something that happened last winter. I live in St. Louis and there, you know, all the houses are built in blocks and touch each other.