sag SY De Nate Daman Smithsonian Institution — ibrartes Alexander Wetmore. 1940 Sixth Secretary 1 95 5 | = | [> FSN. oN, : > Ae, = or Fa iat * Or NPS Br tats BE bak ie Coy Tn or ie | Sas u d iF Sane? td FIELD & STALA! Wd BUT TO be TARGA Piva Tic Gries “ke ( Parade fan S ~ porting? ; Bow Sahar, Komeaeea Ns Ted) bial cdauX, ¥ , a2 GRAHAM BROTHERS AT LONG LAKE, ILLINOIS SE ‘DUCKING DAYS Narratives of Duck Hunting, Studies of Wildfowl Life, and Reminiscences of Famous Marksmen on the Marshes and at the Traps BY Charles B. Morss John B. Thompson Willey S. McCrea Rollin B. Organ Clark McAdams Thomas A. Marshall Perry C. Darby Joseph S. Rugland Paul E. Page William.C. Hazelton CHICAGO 1919 ‘ aa Hi Dedication To Daniel W. Voorhees, Sr., of Peoria, IIl., whose generosity, kindness and many other lovable personal qualities have endeared him to an ever-increasing circle of friends, this volume is dedicated as a tribute of esteem. DANIEL W, VOORHEES, Sr., Peoria, Ill. President The Duck Island Preserve. Audex A Morntinec in a Scutyine Fioat. OLN Pee EMEA) AGT ok EE ENON es 1 ES Ree JoHn Dymonp, JR. Wiliam Cs Havel tonne ee Aw Ipvu or Lrrriz River. Ren Prick WOMPSOW ES ge iGo ras oe FoLLowWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF Coast. Claris MGA dame ei os a ee A ea THE GREYHOUND OF THE ILLINoIs River anD THE Duck IstanD CLUB. eerie SIE ee eee a A Stupy or Ducks ABovE THE CLOUDS. UE tae, A VAST) 2 ase Sete ie ee A 2 Days oN THE ILLINOIS. Wai SA Geet Ow ee Wiuuram H. Watuace. Willian Ha@eehton sk oe a Jack Miner—Naturaut NaTuratist. PCS MTCC Fes mie enh eA Wu Ducks at Laxe Merrirt. Joseph S. Rugland Sa Sage RGeaddocecanerasaccasccesarescesenacscasedsaanunsdecessossnscesensensans Ow Missourt River Bars. Perry. DOr bay 2 ee eee 97 AUDUBON, THE NAURALIST. William C. Hazelton. es 85 Governor Emanvet L. Purippr. IWolltam?C: diaceltona no. ne ee 93 THe KiEmMaAns. Roth Bo Orgqnc 2 Oe a ee 95 Forest H. Conover. Wiliam C. Hazelions2. 2 24 ee ee 107 An ANECDOTE oF FRED KiIMBLE. Rolin: B. Organs. 228 ae ene: Se earn 109 DanieL W. VoorHEES, JR. Wihkam C. Hacelton.... oe ee I15 A: Texas Duck Hunt anp A New Kunp or Retriever. ome A. Marshalls 2 ea ee 119 Cuarues L. Drerine. Wiliam C-Hagelton. 22) ee ee 125 AFTER GREENHEADS IN ALBERTA. Paull, P@Ge 2 oe eae ee 127 Dr. TuHomas Henry Lewis. Damel. W. Voorhees, Sr... 134 Duck SHootine on THE Inurots River. Wilkom C. Hozelionn.. 1k. ce 137 Horeword WICE each year with a regularity equaled only by the seasons a great flood of aquatic bird life swings with the sun over the face of our land. They are the wildfowl who constitute this ebb and flow whose pursuit and capture meant so much to our pioneer ancestors and by the same token whose pursuit and capture still mean so much to present day genera- tions, though in another way. When with the passing of winter we note the arrowhead flocks drag- ging their harrows northward across the April skies we know them to be the welcome precursors of another vernal season; and again, when later with the dying year their ringing clangor greets our ear as they drift southward toward the land of pine and palm we know with equal certainty another winter is fast following down that flying wedge. America is blest by a wealth of feathered game beyond that of any other country in the world and her sportsmen are in proportion. And of these millions who annually follow the field it is quite within the bounds of truth to assert that the big majority are to be found and numbered in that great brotherhood of game shots known as the fra- ternity of duckshooters. Nor perhaps need this be wondered at, since no class of game birds, may it be said, so excites the admiration and stimulates the interest of the average gunner as do the waterfowl. Those who have once tasted the joys and vicissitudes incident to the pursuit and capture of these birds need no second introduction, but freely confess to its undeniable lure and fascination transcending all other forms of sport. Whether the quarry be the wild swan, the grey goose or wavey down from the polar seas, or the mallard, teal or royal canvasback out of the great nurseries of the Canadian north the game is always worth the candle to your inveterate duck hunter who asks for nothing sweeter in life than the magic and all-encompassing charm of his autumnal marshes. True, like in everything else, the “King of Sports’ has its ups and downs. Birds may not fly or decoy today, but your ever hopeful duckshooter knows the time will come when they surely will. The weather and wind, those twin essentials for complete success, may not be as propitous as he would have ordered, but sooner or later, his optimism tells him, it is bound to change for the better. And so, whether in the bright sunlight of October days or mayhap under the dissolving skies of inclement November, it is all in the day of sportsman’s toil to your “dyed in the wool” ducker, who as the wild- fowl seasons multiply over his head learns of delights and experiences such as never come within the prosaic life of the confirmed city dweller, and giving him more than ample cause as he looks back over the receding years to thank his lucky stars for the day that saw him born with a love for the gun and all that goes with it. CHARLES B. MORSS. Haverhill, Mass. Che OlD Point Blind By “CARCAJOU” There's a charm at the Old Point Blind When the winds go whistling by; There's a kiss in the autumn wind For my good old pards and I. There's a line on your nose---never mind, "Tis neither corn nor rye, *Tis the seal of the Old Point Blind. For my good old pards and I, There's sport of the old-fashioned kind, When the birds go sailing by, That’s the charm at the Old Point Blind For my old good pards and I. Lake Koshkonong, Wisconsin ‘A Morning, in a Sculling Float e + + CHARLES B. MORSS tants nM) AANA A MORNING IN A SCULLING FLOAT By Charles B. Morss Far where the broad bays extend, Their billows to the horizon end, And where the honking geese and brant Assemble in their chosen haunt. —Isaac McLellan. Eto® a week I had been cultivating my leisure and the gun at the island rendezvous of Hermit Joe. More of the former to be sure than aught else, for though we were in the duck country, the golden weather for the time being put a quietus on the sport, for ducks, like men, love to loaf and loiter under the lethargic influence of the Indian summer days of a northern Fall. Birds were about us somewhere we knew, but so long as the weather kept above the frost line they were going to stay put, and so our float rested idly in its reedy slip from sun to sun. To the Hermit who had never graduated from the ducking school in which he had been raised, the mysteries of cover shooting were a closed book, but he nevertheless took huge delight in 4 DUCKING DAYS tagging my heels like a dog as I now and then shot out a woodeock cover that lay just over the inlet. * y | é , -* ‘ + , 5 ‘ f I rc " d ex = ‘ - +> i i Pe 5 J ’ Y Eig ‘ i * oe Be eT , A & i ‘ ’ ° ’ a 7 , ; i ® f - r a “ : 7 P » 2 : Bd @ we ¥ ; eT seo i Ne Sas — is < - r ' - . te 7 a ee fo ete an ae . A MORNING IN A SCULLING FLOAT 13 water. Though keeping a sharp lookout, the sudden flashing of resplendent wings and quavering wee-uks wee-uks of alarm told me I had been caught napping as a wooddrake glittering like an opal sprang from the base of a rat house, offering a perfect chance at 30 yards. Shades. of Tom Marshall and ‘‘Pop”’ Heikes! After the previous good work of the morning shall I soon forget the feeling of chagrin that convulsed me when in spite of my best efforts to stop him I had to set and watch that regal beauty depart without leaving be- hind so much as a single feather for my consolation. Yes, dear reader, it is a frozen fact we doubled on that bird with two perfect opportunities and failed to score where practically no skill was required. It is hard to explain, but an open secret we all do it at times. Rounding out from the cove a bunch of golden eyes, the season’s first, were diving over a gravel bar, but taking flight while still out of range, swung to the foot of the lake and well up, came heading back plainly with the intention of leaving. By cutting under with the float I was enabled to edge in near enough for a chance and wing-tipped a bird that scaled downward on a long slant at terrific speed, striking the surface with such force as sent it ghssading end over end for a dozen somersaults ere it gained control and sat up; no doubt in the swift turn of affairs, the most dumbfounded duck in all duck- dom. No hesitating barrel will do for a crippled whistler 14 DUCKING DAYS and a quick second shot rolled him over before he had recovered his breath sufficiently to begin diving. The last leg of the route, a quarter-mile scull across the head of the pond to the home island lay before me. I had nearly circled the lake and picked up in the opera- tion that great delight of the bird hunter, a mixed bag. And well mixed though it was, luck so willed it another variety was still to be added. Nothing appeared until I had neared the neighborhood of the anchored stool and noted three small fowl clus- tered quite apart by themselves—which I at first judged in the distance to be teal. Bearing down upon the trio they began swimming smartly off, but not so fast but what one could soon manceuvre within range. On setting up they did not rise as anticipated but pulled in together, and thinking to settle the hash of all three and ‘‘ Hover- ize’? on my somewhat scarce ammunition at one and the same time I laid the pattern of a heavy charge from a well-choked barrel exactly on the spot occupied by the three birds at 40 yards. In my mind’s eye they were already in the float, but it was another case of counting one’s chickens ere they hatch, for every one of the little sinners went under at the crack without having received so much as a scratch. On emerging they were widely separated but headed into the home cove, and by working back and forth I finally bagged the three with as many shots, and strangely enough, as they swam with nought but their bullet heads above the surface. They were ruddy duck, the ‘‘chicken canvasback’’ of the South. John Dymond, Jr. + & & JOHN DYMOND, JR. We reproduce herewith the photograph of Mr. John Dymond, Jr., of Louisiana, one of the leading sportsmen of that State. In 1908 Mr. Dymond organized The Delta Duck Club, located at the mouth of the Mississippi River, which club possesses probably the finest game preserve and club house of any club in the country, and by reason of the excellent hunting results there obtained, has gained a world-wide reputation. The membership of the club in- cludes prominent sportsmen from the four corners of the United States. The club has 100 members. The grounds of The Delta Duck Club comprise more than 50,000 acres of made land at the delta of the Mis- sissippi River, and there are more than 100 lakes and ponds on this vast tract. Mr. Dymond has been prominent in securing legisla- tion, both State and Federal, for the protection of our wild migratory birds. He is the local counsel in the State of Louisiana of the Rockefeller Foundation, which has established in that State one of the largest refuges for migratory birds. While originally from New York, by reason of his long residence in the South, Mr. Dymond has become a thorough Southerner. JOHN DYMOND, JR., New Orleans, La. President The Delta Duck Club, An Idyl of Little River cn JOHN B. THOMPSON eth) at AN IDYL OF LITTLE RIVER By John B. Thompson So again tonight I’m thinking, Days of youth, of dog and gun, Days of sport in times now olden, Long before life’s span was run. —Whipple. beaten native reposed quietly on his pallet of dirty comforts. Calling to him several times, he gave me no answer. I should have known better than to have tried to draw the attention of a Little River native to the rocking of the house. To him it was the sweetest of slumber songs—to me it was an unparalleled wind, threatening each instant to wrench the unstable structure from its flimsy, stilt-like foundation of cypress. Anew came a fierce booming gust of wind, apparently more formidable than any of its predecessors. The shack rattled, pitched, then seemingly ashamed of its yielding that much to the elements, it dropped back with a soggy thud on its tottering piling, and rested in its original position. el, Sete of the storm, the little, brown, weather- 20 DUCKING DAYS Pete Godair still slept peacefully. Suddenly after a short blow from the northwest, the wind desisted. Then all was tranquil. I lifted the latch, opened the door, and peering out into what was swart darkness a moment before, I saw the gray of day seep- ing slowly yet unmistakably through the hurrying gray ~ clouds. From the east, the sounds coming across the breaks of cypress, into the water-killed tupelo gums, and wind-beaten swards of saw grass, flag and yoncopin, bore the notes of numerous bands of wildfowl already in flight. Presently I saw Pete standing at my side, rubbing his dark eyes. ‘‘Been windy all night, I reckon,’’ observed Pete, as his eyes sought the open water approvingly. ‘‘Ther’ll be no ducks coming into decoys except in the big holes way back in the timber.”’ And Pete was right, as he always was when it came to a decision on matters concerning ducks. While paddling out into the big overflow we beheld thousands of ducks in flight, but not a single flock jumped from the water until we began to invade the heavy pin- oak timber. We had thirty-five about as noisy decoy ducks as I had ever heard talk. Evidently they were expressing pleasure at the passing of the storm—or perhaps was it the prospects of the luscious little acorns, or the many AN IDYL OF LITTLE RIVER 21 crustaceans to be found in the shallow water. There was a particularly garrulous hen—rather an under- sized little lady—who made up in vociferousness what she lacked in proportions. She was simply prattling all the time, endeavoring her utmost as she poised in the front of the duck boat, to call every band of feathered creatures in the sky. The locality that Pete had chosen was a round, open waterhole covering about four acres and surrounded by tupelo gums. Margining the pond was a wide bed of smartweed which stood stately and grossly rank as though no storm had visited there. Pete threw out our noisy decoys and assigned me a position in a huge cy- press stump about seven feet high. There was ample room for both of us within. We were screened by the growth of sedge and foxtail grass which by some miracle apparently had grown rank in the slow-rotting stump. In the center of it where the grass was pressed down into a comfortable reposing bed it was warm to the touch of my hand, and Pete told me that just an instant before a deer had been resting there. Hardly had those decoys started to feed when the ducks came in all at once. Peter never touched his lips to his walnut call. He didn’t have to! That noisy hen did it all. Her powers were simply irresistible, for veritably she called them out of the clouds. Our scope of vision was necessarily narrowed by the tall trees. It 22 DUCKING DAYS was a new form of shooting to me. I never saw the ducks until they swung into the opening and pitched for the decoys. Mallards predominated, so much so that we only fired at the countless scaups to keep them away from our decoys. Whether it was the little hen or not, or the abundance of smartweed that tempted I cannot tell. But I never saw ducks pour into a pond as these did. At first it was in small flocks, then they appeared to be driven by some unseen force into our waterhole. We could not keep them out. In a half an hour what began as sport now threatened to turn into slaughter, if we persisted. We could never use half the ducks we killed, and even in that market-hunter-infested region my companion singularly was no market hunter; just a lover of the wild whose livelihood was gained from trapping and guiding outers in the swamps. ‘‘Mor God’s sake stop!’’ Pete commanded. ‘‘We got enuff. I ’low we won’t know what to do with what we have, ’nd if we keep this up there won’t be no room in the boat fur them decoys.’’ Then I got a history of that little decoy hen, as Pete described her: ‘‘She hain’t got the looks much of a wild mallard, but she can out-mallard any decoy that ever lived!’’ Pete’s statement was irrefutably beyond ‘ contradiction. She was the single living product from the mating of a tame mallard drake and a crippled hen AN IDYL OF LITTLE RIVER 23 widgeon which the swamper had domesticated. Madam | Widgeon only returned from her nest in the flag with | this one youngster, and Pete said: ‘‘She was allus a_ hollerin’ ever sence she was born, and I don’t reckon she’ll quit till she dies.’’ I am sure had that cross-bred little lady been per- mitted to remain two hours longer in that pond, she would have had it so packed with wildfowl that no more could crowd in. She was the last duck that we gathered, and when we put her in the bow of the heavily-laden duck boat she stood on top of a sleepy old drake, and violent cried her siren song all the way home. Peter pushed the boat home through by a route hitherto unknown to me. Always through the heavy timber he seemed to sense the way of egress rather by instinct than sight. The grass grew taller, the timber heavier and the density of the moss beds apparently defied progress. But the native never looked, seemingly bending his head in half-somnolent state, the small craft invariably found a passageway of water in the tangles just large enough for it. Repeatedly I thought the water route had ab- ruptly terminated, but Pete still pushed on nonchalantly and water would appear before us only in boat-length bodies, though always sufficient for our passage, and, too, we were drawing several inches more of water than is usually allotted to a duck boat on account of our big kill. 24 DUCKING DAYS Gradually we drew close to Pete’s shack. Pete threw out in the water all the decoys except my lady of the eall- ing qualities. Evidently she was his favorite. Across the swamp in the west.we heard the rattle of ditching machinery, which in a few years was destined to convert the wilderness into a land of productiveness. I noted Pete, as he heard the sounds of the big engine cutting its way through the swamp. He was silent, pensive. His face was a study. I knew what he was thinking of, the passing away of this vast inundation into the control of man. And thoughts entered my mind quickly of what all this meant. Ducking grounds un- paralleled for generations would soon feel the touch of the plowshare. Miles and miles of heavily timbered deer and turkey country would yield the staple crops of the South. With chagrin I gazed up at the sky, and saw flock after flock of mallards pitching into the willow- oak slashes. Then I turned to the little mallard hen. She was no more on the alert—her head turned half contemplatively buried in her wing. Had she, too, lost her vocal vigor at the presaging destruction of her d home 2 | Following, the Redheads to the Gulf Coast CLARK McADAMS FOLLOWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF COAST By Clark McAdams He sees great sunsets burn and fade, And, through his close-set window bars, Tremble along the dusky wave, The twilight splendor of lone stars. —The Old Decoy Duck. EDHEADS went over us even higher than usual last Fall, and when I was invited by Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, Jr., to the Gulf Coast I gladly accepted. It was late in January when we set out, the route led ’ us down through the pine woods and red fields of Texas, and we first saw the Gulf at Corpus Christi. We had breakfast that morning at the Nueces Hotel, the dining room of which looked out on the bay. It was the first time I had seen the southern seas since I went to Panama six years ago, and I enjoyed renewing the acquaintance. Of course, a duckshooter is always looking for ducks. I saw none there through the hotel window, but I was reminded by the dancing blue waters | of the great shoal of ducks I had seen in Panama Bay. | T thought some of those looked like ducks I had shot at.. 28 DUCKING DAYS If so, they had forgotten it, and were friendly enough. They merely swam aside while our boat plied the bay. The boatman said he was not sure whether they had come from North or South America, which I remember had interested me. I had never thought of ducks com- ing this way for the Winter or going that way for the Summer. Perhaps none of us does. All the same, it is likely. It may account for the scarcity of ducks up here at times, a calculation not entering into those specula- tions occasionally occupying some of the finest brains we have in this country. It was thirty miles up the coast to Rockport, where the Granada II was waiting to take up out to the shoot- ing grounds. We were taken over there in an automo- bile, and we had no more than cleared the outskirts of Corpus Christi than we saw ducks in the backwater and on the flats. They were for the most part ducks which no one on the Texas Coast cares anything about—black- jacks, spoonbills and bluebills. Your Texan, I very soon found out, is not after trash of that sort, which he is very glad to return to us for what we can make of it. We passed on the way one of the great Taft ranches, so denominated on the roof of a barn in letters as broad as Brother Bill. It was a mighty flat place, and looked as if the owner must be making a lot of money at some- thing else. I recalled that goose shooting was said to be one of the charms of that ranch, but it was good and gooseless when I went by. JOSEPH PULITZER, JR.. AND MRS. PULITZER, St. Louis, Mo. At Rockport, Texas. - FOLLOWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF COAST 29 The boat was waiting at the pier. It was a dream of a yacht—70 feet over all, carrying a captain (engineer), deckhand and colored cook. We got our licenses—it costs a non-resident $15 to hunt in Texas—and were off down the coast. Rockport faded into the distance. Porpoises played about in the waves. The two 45-horse- power gasoline engines bowled us along at something like 12 knots, and we swept the flats with our glasses, looking for redheads. Redheads, so I was told, feed upon a grass which grows in the shallow water, and are in these waters all Winter. They appear about the first of November, and some of them are in even before that. Unlike the mal- lards and pintail, which also go to that country, they do not seem to require fresh water, and cannot be shot around the fresh-water ponds, where most of the mal- lards and geese are killed. Pintail especially are nu- merous on the coast. My impression from many years of observation that there are more pintail than all other kinds of ducks combined, was borne out by the captain, Clarence Armstrong, who had been a market hunter on the Texas Coast, as was his father before him. He said it was something like that. ‘We found redheads at noon, and having had our lunch we went ashore in a launch, leaving the Granada - IL atanchor. The usual method of hunting down there is to take a rowboat, which is pulled up on the beach 30 DUCKING DAYS where the ducks were feeding, make a blind around the boat of sweet bay, and shoot over blocks. We had seventy blocks, all redheads. It was not long before the ducks began to come back. They came in flocks—big, little and middling. The redhead is first cousin to the canvasback, and except for its stockier build is easily mistaken for the canvasback. Redheads are what Ben llarrison used to come out to Havana, Illinois, to shoot when he was President. Grover Cleveland, like most of us, shot anything with a duck bill, but Ben Harrison wanted what he wanted. The redhead decoys very much like a mallard, but comes in to decoys as a rule with a single turn when it is coming down wind, or straight in like a teal upwind. It is a prince of ducks, a beauty in the air, a delectable dish. Its failure to weave around in the sky and first reconnoiter all the surroundings, as a mallard does, enables it to take by surprise for a bit cne who isn’t accustomed to its habit. I used a double- barreled gun, and learned after a little occasionally to get two with one barrel, making possible three. I didn’t always do that, but it was what I was trying to do when I didn’t. You get me, I guess. We were content with little that first afternoon, and had redhead for dinner. Some dinner, that. We had sea trout, and whatever else the fat of the coast pro- vided. Then we lighted our pipes and talked about the things duckshooters like.. There would, of course, be FOLLOWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF COAST 31 more ducks in the morning. I asked the captain how ducks were holding out in that country. Not well, he said. Year by year they decrease in number. Texas permits one to kill fifteen in a day. Non-residents may take out forty-five. Market hunting, so I was told, is dead in that country. I was glad to hear that. Market hunting is what we are all fighting. There will always be ducks if we can stop that. The captain said a single hunter often kills hundreds in a day, when there was money in it. It was good to sleep on the yacht that night. A norther had swooped down on us at sunset. filling the north sky with a great mass of black cloud and dropping the temperature until the wind cut to the bone. It blew pretty much all night, but the yacht merely rolled at her anchor, doing her best to lull us to sleep. I had never experienced a norther before. It is all that Andy Adams or any other historian of that far country has ever claimed for it. The next morning was cool, with a cloud-shot and duckless sky. Looking over to the flat where the ducks had been the night before, I thought of my own quatrain, expressing what we have all experienced: It is to laugh. Someone has killed them all, And nothing answers to my plaintive call; Nor would respond, though I should blow a blast The like of which/cost Jericho her wall. 32 DUCKING DAYS We weighed anchor after breakfast, and set off down the coast, following that picturesque inner channel which threads its way behind the sand dunes marking the rim of the Gulf. We passed through Aransas Pass, where the tarpon are, and saw a Mexican ship pumping out. There, too, we looked through a channel to the Gulf, where the white-caps were dancing and the flying fishes _ were playing. Below Aransas we found a flat covered with waterfowl. There were great banks of snowy pelicans. All the redheads left were apparently holding a convention at which ways and means were doubtless being discussed to save the species. We first had lunch, and while we ate, a little bunch of bluebills sported in the water beside the yacht. They were as tame as coots, it being quite well anderstood that they were not what we were after. After lunch we put off for the flat, rigged up our blind around the rowboat, and sent the Jaunch down the bay to stir up the ducks. That was Corpus Bay, eighteen miles across, a blue and beautiful body of water. It was Paradise for a duckshooter. The willet, which we do not have here, but which is a favorite shore bird in the East, continually flew past us with its beautiful plover call and its attractive white-banded spread of wing. We had one of our finest shoots that afternoon, quit- ting with thirty. The redhead is called to attract its attention to the decoys. It flies close to the water, and FOLLOWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF COAST 33 can go by without seeing the blocks unless its attention is attracted to them. If you can make a noise like a redheaded woodpecker getting grubs out of a hollow tree you can swing the redheads in. Our boatman could do it. We couldn’t. When we tried it the redheads laughed, swung out and went by on the outside, the red polls of the drakes flashing in the sunlight and their black ruffs giving them the appearance of so many wild dandies. That night we went out under the tender moon and ran a line for fresh trout. These safely aboard, we reveled in the loveliness of the night, to rest up long and = to rest us sweetly. The next day was the South at its best, a dream day in which the air seemed scarcely to stir, in which the cormorants all decided to go some- where north of us to better fishing, and innumerable plover of every sort and kind, ran about on the oyster shells and made melodious the air. That day the fishing boats passed us with all sails set and a man at the top of the main mast looking for schools. ‘We enjoyed that day, as any duckshooter can, for love of the great out- doors itself. Ducks were an incident, and they were careful to make themselves incidental. We saw few, and killed fewer. At night we were told about goose shooting at the fresh-water ponds. The goose comes to that coast in abundance—Canadas, brant, snow geese—- blue geese even. They are not hard to kill. The hunters shoot them with sixes. One can always have a good 34. DUCKING DAYS hunt down there—but we were after redheads. Ducks, by the way, are mostly shot with seven and a halves. In three years, they have not had a good rain on that coast. The fresh water is consequently scarce, and the few ponds remaining were all used by geese, pintail and mallards. The Texas hunters, so far as I could hear, are in favor of the federal law on migratory birds. The Texas sea- son has been made to conform to the federal season. There, where birds are always present in season, they want to keep up the supply. It was a new experience to me to be in country where the hunters felt that way about it. Alas! if we could all feel that way about it. We like to say here that the South has the better of it —that in the ninety days it has for shooting it has the birds every day, which far exceeds the sport we get. in 105 days. That is true, too; but is it a condition that we can ever hope to equalize between a watered country like that, in which the birds winter, and a dry country like this, through which the birds merely pass and in which shooting is both spasmodie and fortuitous? The Texas coast is a duckshooter’s paradise in Winter. I saw what I thought was a world of ducks, but nothing like the number one usually sees, so I was told. Our best shoot, I thought, occurred on the last day, when we sailed all morning and located a shoal of ducks FOLLOWING THE REDHEADS TO THE GULF COAST 35 at noon. We put off at 2 o’clock, and were set by 2:80. The wind blew hard from the northeast. The redhead is a bullet on that sort of a day. It is quite possible to shoot all the way from five to fifteen feet behind one of them going downwind, and it takes marksmanship to snatch them out of the sky when thye are turning and » twisting this way and that. We were getting our shoot- ing caps on at that particular sport by this time, and you know how good it feels? It makes tobacco taste good. It makes duckshooting what it can be. It makes one’s blood tingle. The shells seem to be right. Your gun is a dandy. It was fun to watch Brownie watching the winged ducks swim under water—now leaping at them and sousing his head under—now looking around puzzled to see where the thing had got to. Then we chewed the sweet bay leaves, which are the same bay leaves we have always tasted in soup. We enjoyed that shoot, and yelled like boys at a happy hit. We killed twenty-five redheads—but it was just as I have always thought—it isn’t the bag that counts, but the way they come. The season ended the day we got back to Rockport. It was the last day of January. All the hunting boats were in, the hunters were getting their blocks in the boxes and hauling them up town. The boys were already talking of fishing. The hunting had passed. I liked that. It looked like good sportsmanship, which is one of the things for which all true sportsmen should stand. ioe PWCER SS ¥, dei oy f : Bee ‘ ; oay 7 , ¥ Se fe no 4 x ¥ Poe cay a y eo) * b 3 . , ay « ; oe . i Oe kn Pile up the pine and hemlock boughs, © PF _ Send up the starry shower; Ten days of wildwood friendship be $ Concentrated in this hour. —Thompson. ; ; a 7 6 - a 2 . ae 4 * im + ay Dig ae “ a be 4 i £6 ; ; : Si set, ; Z Bey Saf, ls Os at ee eed 4 pore,» * on) | Orth) pS a mes Ne veer Bly ALY slour|] 242 Jo punoysais ayy, .ALMANODUVN,, AHL The Greyhound of the Ilinois River and the Duck Island Club TOM A. MARSHALL THE GREYHOUND OF THE ILLINOIS RIVER AND THE DUCK ISLAND CLUB By Tom A. Marshall Gently sings the running water By my camp beneath the trees, And I hear the soothing rustle As the night wind stirs the leaves. —Whipple. Gy greyhound of the Illinois River! That is the ‘‘Marguerite,’’ a power boat, 40 feet long, 4 feet of beam, drawing 26 inches of water when driven ahead by a 150 H. P. engine, turning a 22-inch propeller 800 revolutions per minute. This model of beauty lay at her dock in Peoria, tug- ging at her leashes, anxious to jump out and try con- clusions with the rapid flowing current of the Illinois River. Dannie Voorhees, Jr., owner and operator of this distance eliminator, was busy adjusting and tuning up his engines and soon had her striking on the six cylinders. Walking forward, I had a good view of her bow, sharp as a knife, also her graceful and symmetrical body, lines 40 DUCKING DAYS that the most critical boat maker or builder would go into ecstasies over. ‘¢ All aboard!’’ was the call for which we were waiting. D. R. Lewis, president of the Hibernian Bank of Chi- cago; Dr. Thomas Henry Lewis, also of Chicago; Dan W. Voorhees, Sr., president of the Duck Island Club and Illinois State Sportsmen’s Association; Dan Voor- hees, Jr., and the writer, were seated in most com- fortable chairs aft, while Uncle Dan Voorhees took the wheel with the confidence of Mark Twain piloting a lower Mississippi River steamboat. When Dannie, Jr., turned her over there was a ma- chine effect from the engine. ‘‘Cast off!’’ came the command. The ‘‘Marguerite’? made a most graceful circle, then straightened out for a thirty-four-mile down stream run to Duck Island Club. Our boat responded to her engines, fairly raising her nose from the water as She rushed under the numerous Peoria bridges. Pekin was soon sighted and fourteen miles of the dis- tance was negotiated. Treuble in Passing “City of Peoria” The steamer City of Peoria was soon met on her up trip, She was on shoal water and drawing an immense ground swell. Our boat fairly jumped at the waves, skipping the tops of some and cutting directly through others. We were compelled to shut down our engines until we again entered untroubled waters. “ASNOH ANID AANASAYd GNV1ISI MONG JO MAIA TVNOILOAS THE GREYHOUND OF THE ILLINOIS RIVER ors ALi A miniature geyser shot up from the bow, directly between the water rainbows which were turning from her nose on each side. ‘‘A leaf,’? was Dan’s laconic grunt and the engines were again slowed down, the boat given a sudden turn, and the leaf released. Pekin, with its idle distilleries and active fishing in- dustries, was only a glance as we rushed by. High bluffs, swamps and likely shooting ponds (but no ducks), were passed in rapid succession. Levees, small towns and mining hamlets, fishing boats and fisherman’s cabins were a fleeting panorama. We jumped a few ducks from the river. Every avail- able point was occupied by a hunter, who was always surrounded by decoys, but apparently getting no birds, his discordant efforts on his call seeming to add to the fright of the ducks. Royal Welcome at the Duck Island Club Locks at Copperas Creek were sighted in the distance. The stage of water was good, and we went over the top of the dam with a wild rush, leaving a far-reaching trail of foaming water behind. Where were the Illinois River ducks of ye olden days, when they floated upon the river bry the millions? I began to feel that time or weather was not propitious for duck hunting. We headed into a chute about a quarter of a mile down and came to the dock of the clubhouse. As a reception committee we found W. D. Allen, ex-Mayor of Peoria; 42 DUCKING DAYS Senator Alderson of Pekin; C. J. Sammis of Peoria and the congenial club care taker, John Rogers, with a num- ber of pushers to care for our baggage. Were we cold? Think of splitting thirty-four miles of wind and water in one hour and ten minutes! Well, I guess we were chilly, and took great comfort in backing up to the im- mense fireplace, with a fire built as a weleome, accom- panied by proper accessories of hospitality. It was not noon, yet all members had been out in the marsh, returning with their limit of fifteen birds. That listened good to me. Ducks of Every Species An elegant duck dinner was served at noon. Clothes were then donned which camouflaged nicely with our buck brush surroundings and we walked to the big lake 200 yards from the clubhouse—a lake two and one-half miles long, one mile wide. The surface of the lake was black with ducks of every species. They were feeding on the wild rice and celery, with smartweed for dessert. The shore in all directions was covered with smartweeds, which extended well out into the lake, forming the smartweed flats, so attractive to duckdom. At the entrance to the dredged ditch, which leads from the lake to the clubhouse, is a tower for ob- servation. Hunters ascend this to locate the ducks in their timber feeding grounds. THE DUCK ISLAND CLUB 43 _ ‘We pushed out from the shore in a twelve-foot punt © béat, headed down the big lake to the cutoff at the head é6f Mink Island, then across to Willow flat, where our decoys were set in a small opening in the buck brush. With our block decoys we had a couple of live ducks which we anchored just outside of sight of each other. This induced an incessant calling of a most seductive character for passing ducks. Mallards commenced cir- cling about our decoys, reluctant to alight until suffi- ciently urged by our tame ducks, which seemed to take delight in inveigling their distant kin folk into the danger zone. Ducks did not seem to come very rapidly, but I was working on every opportunity most indus- triously. ‘‘Three more and you will have your limit,’’ said the pusher, at the same time giving a few purrs on the call, which brought an old greenhead in over the decoys. Two more were then needed to complete the day. A pair came dashing in and we had our allotted number. Uncle Dan arrived while we were picking up. ‘‘Got my limit,’’ was his answer to my inquiry about his suc- cess. We returned to the clubhouse, arriving before 4 p. M. The Lewis brothers, who had been shooting to- gether, had also arrived with their limit of birds. The purpling twilight’s melting blue Is fading with its transient hue; The red cloud that erewhile did float The heavenly vault like a painted boat. —Isaac McLellan. A Study of Ducks Above the Clouds aa ae TOM A. MARSHALL A STUDY OF DUCKS ABOVE THE CLOUDS By Tom A. Marshall The stalking trapper scales the stony height, And daring soldier from the frontier fort Climbs the steep cliff, and creeps from rock to rock, And from some grassy rampart fires the shot. —Isaac McLellan. OULDN’T you like to visit Crater Lake, an inland body of water, resting placidly in the interior of an extinct voleano, 6,177 feet above the level of the Pacific Ocean? It nestles in the heart of the Cascade Mountains in southern Oregon, and is accessible by an §1-mile automobile drive over the most excellent govern- ment highway, through Crater Lake National Park. This is the most awe inspiring and remarkable inland body of water in the known world. It is six miles across, with an official depth of 1,996 feet. Its waters are clear with a color shading from a dark midnight to a light ul- tramarine blue—a lake in the top of a mountain, occupy- ing the crater of a burnt out, but once active, volcano! It is of the ducks and their behavior above the clouds that I am about to tell you. Birds in their migratory 48 DUCKING DAYS flight (usually at a great altitude) become bewildered at the sight of a seductive lake in the heavens. They seem to be inspired with the same feeling of intense interest and awe which possesses mankind when they first look upon the face of Crater Lake. The wonder, surprise and amazement of our feathered friends was depicted in their ‘‘killing flight,’’ uncertainty of locality and unwillingness to alight on a body of water that was so misplaced and difficult of access for them. livery movement they made truly denoted indecision and alarm. At the time I arrived at the crater a blinding snowstorm shut out the view. The atmosphere was very ‘‘snappy’’ and bracing—a temperature that starts one’s blood rapidly coursing through the veins and his chest to expand as the uncanned ozone was inhaled. As I walked up to the rim the veil of snow was dis- sipated by the appearance of the sun breaking through the mist and glinting down upon a bank of settling clouds one-half mile away, which to the eye was im- penetrable. Shafts of light were seen dancing upon the surface of the water 2,000 feet below the point I was then standing on, anchored in awe and amazement. Circling around the walls of the crater, a flock of mal- lards were on a tour of inspection. They swung near my vantage point, their kaleidoscopic colorings flashing in the reflected sunlight as they made their spiral glides, dips and counter flights. Every move they made was A STUDY OF DUCKS ABOVE THE CLOUDS 49 indicative of uncertainty in the water’s invitation to alight and rest. Their behavior was very different from the ducks I had watched circling near sea level when they were in search of a sanctuary. With great interest I watched them descend, only to arise again and circle the crater in search of greater safety. This was repeated many times. Iinally an old greenhead took the lead, apparently being freighted with a spirit of desperation. Pointing his wings, with his feet. extended, he slowly volplaned down and landed upon the placid waters of Crater Lake, quietly followed by his extensive family. They were unquestionably imbued with the same feeling whick possessed the writer—enchanted and spellbound with the mystery and strangeness of their surroundings. A step nearer the rim of the crater and I became ob- sessed with a spirit of witchery. My hand grasped a manzineta bush and I swung farther out over that awful chasm. As I gazed down that apparently perpendicular cliff the sensations of falling from a dizzy height were upon me. The same mental condition prevailed that [I experienced when my first aeroplane glide was made to earth from an altitude of a half mile. It was a feeling of goneness, accompanied by a complete loss of breath. We have all experienced the same combination in our dreams. Why are you doubtful—why tarry so long, When the god of the wanderlust calls? The gypsy-road trails through the perfume of dusk, When the purple of night softly falls. —Pitt. Days on the Illinois WILLIAM C. HAZELTON DAYS ON THE ILLINOIS By William C. Hazelton Do you know the blackened timber—do you know that racing stream With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? —Kipling. OW would you like to journey down the grand old Illinois River for a week in the glorious Autumn weather, visiting with the river people, and bag- ging a few ducks on the way? Well, I did it in October, 1917, and had one of the most enjoyable times of my life. I started at Morris, ten miles below the junction of the Kankakee and Des Plaines Rivers, and ended my trip at Liverpool, 180 miles down the river, rowing the entire distance alone, except going through Peoria Lake. I thus combined the pleasures of both travel and hunt- ing. I fully realize that many hunters would not at- tempt this. They think it too far to row a boat, espe- Gially on a river so large as the Illinois. It is true there is a big expanse of water at some points and you are liable to encounter severe storms at this season of 54 DUCKING DAYS the year. The journey took me five days and a half, facing a head wind three days. Rowing, swimming and shooting are my favorite sports, so why fear a little work with the oars? I had a very light running boat, which made it much easier for me. My hands never blister when using the proper kind of a boat. While coming down the river I cut across on the long bends when the wind was not blowing too strong. The total length of the Illinois River until it reaches the Mississippi is approximately 300 miles, and I jour- neyed nearly two-thirds of the distance. I traveled light, Indian fashion, and alone. You know what Kipling says: Down to Gehenna, Or up to the throne, He travels the fastest, Who travels alone. My equipment was a boat that I had used for three years, and was not afraid to buck any stretch of water in; a gun, and one small grip containing a few boxes of shells and some warm articles of clothing to use in case of necessity. No decoys, as I did not intend to do any decoy shooting on the way, and knew I could rent decoys down the river. When I started out I expected to stop at a hotel each night at a town on the river. I soon found this was im- practicable. I slept in a stack of timothy hay the first DAYS ON THE ILLINOIS 55 night. Darkness would often overtake me several miles from the nearest town. At Henry only I remained over night at a hotel. I generally stopped at cabin boats on the river with hunters and fishermen. I enjoyed doing this. A sort of Don Quixote of the river, seeking adven- tures on the way. It was a beautiful day when I started and I bagged my first ducks at Sugar Island, a pair of mallards near the upper end, and further along a third one. I missed one shot at a pair. (I use a double gun. No pump or automatic for me.) Sugar Island is one of the finest islands on the river. Tt is high ground, never affected by overflows, and there is always game of different kinds there. There had been a severe storm a few days earlier, driving the birds down from the North, and there were a number of nice flocks of mallards along every little ways, and a few bluebills. I here explain that on the lower river the ducks do not (except sometimes bluebills or other deep-water ducks) frequent the main channel of the river at all, and often do not follow its course except generally when flying. On the upper river they frequent the main channel, mal- lards and all other varieties more or less. That night, at the end of my first day’s journey, while resting in a hay stack up on the river bank in the moon- 56 DUCKING DAYS light at a deserted farmhouse, I was delighted with my experiences during the day. I had enjoyed myself and had ten ducks—eight mallards and two bluebills. There was a stiff breeze blowing up the river, and night over- took me three miles from Marseilles, hence the hay stack. it was the shortest run I made any day on the trip, only twelve miles. That night about 9 o’clock a flock of geese flew over me within forty yards. I could see their mark- ings very plainly. During the night I had two eallers, first a horse and later a dog. The horse was feeding along the grassy river bank. Nearing my resting place and on my hear- ing him and rising up out of the hay, he ran away snorting, a badly frightened horse. I know he thought he had seen a ghost at that deserted farmhouse. From Marseilles to Ottawa I used the canal for eight miles, as there is a big dam there. At Ottawa I trans- ferred my boat to the Fox River, thence into the []linois, reaching Peru that night. It was a fine day for travel- ing, but I only saw one duck during the day, quite a con- trast to the day previous. I sent some ducks back to Chicago from Marseilles so some of my friends could have roast duck for Sunday dinner. Above Lacon a couple of miles I had an interesting half-hour’s chat with a Catholic priest (an Englishman), who was shooting over the most lifelike decoys I saw DAYS ON THE ILLINOIS 57 anywhere during the season. They belonged to one of his parishioners. Good decoys are a hobby of mine. Going through Peoria Lake I loaded my boat on the steamer David Swain at Chillicothe and took passage for Peoria, 18 miles distant, to avoid pulling against a strong wind blowing up the lake. I had a fine view of the lake from the upper deck of the steamer, and saw many flocks of bluebills, a few redheads and canvasbacks, a sample of what was to come. Also countless coots or mudhens. The river is a mile wide or more along this part of its course. I passed many interesting views on the river. Starved Rock, Buffalo Rock, Senachwine Lake (where T. 8. Van Dyke, ‘‘the historian of the Illinois River,’’ did some of his first duck shooting), the beautiful Sister Islands near Henry, the Copperas Creek dam, and finally the pic- turesque little town of Liverpool located on an island in the Llinois, being ten miles from a railroad. About two miles above Chillicothe I heard mallards calling loudly on a lake just back of the trees along the river bank. Cutting across a big bend in the river to a fisherman’s cabin-boat (he had a large assortment of boats and nets), I said to him: ‘‘What are all those ducks over there making such a noise about? Are they decoys?’’ ‘‘No,’’ he said, ‘‘they are wild mallards, and there are thousands of them. They are shooting over 58 DUCKING DAYS on the other side of the river today at the Chicago Gun Club preserve, and many of the ducks are over here.”’ They paid no attention to the shooting on the other side of the river, and little flocks were constantly crossing back and forth. I got up on the river bank and took a look at them and there were ducks for a half mile, quack- ing away and enjoying themselves. It was getting late and I went on down the river to find a lodging place. Hundreds of people live on the river the year around, earning their livelihood by fishing, hunting and trap- ping, particularly fishing. There are many quaint char- acters to be met among them. Once a river man, always a river man. Many have families. I interviewed some of them. ‘‘How long have you been on the river,’’ I said to a erizzled old fellow at Chillicothe. ‘‘Sixty-five years,’’ he answered. A little later he started telling me about old Joe Carroll, the shooting pardner of Fred Kimble and Joseph W. Long. You may imagine with what in- terest I listened. Long’s words came to my memory: ‘‘How well I remember old Joe Carroll, the best duck shot by all odds I ever met. What a slim chance a duck had for its life after once approaching him within gun- shot!’’ Long speaks in an equally complimentary way of Kimble’s marksmanship. Fred Kimble was also an expert musician, and could whistle in an artistic manner. DAYS ON THE ILLINOIS 59) J passed several nights on ecabin-boats and enjoyed visiting with the river people. They are veritable water gypsies and many of them have lived on the Mississippi, Arkansas, Ohio, Tennessee, Missouri and other large rivers, traveling from one to the other. Many were formerly market hunters. I passed several duck preserves owned by various clubs. The Chicago Gun Club, the Green Wing Club, the Princeton Club, Duck Island Club and others. The Duck Island preserve of 2,000 acres is located 5 miles above Liverpool. These preserves are highly beneficial in keeping birds on the river, as they are a refuge and the preserves are not allowed to be overshot. The lakes along the river, or overflow, as I call it, greatly resemble Reelfoot Lake, Tennessee, thousands of dead trees and stumps protruding from the water. The water acts as a preservative. Owing to the added volume of water coming down the river from the Chi- cago drainage canal the area of flooded land is greater than formerly. Altogether I was infatuated with my trip and would not have missed the experiences for a great deal. When the ducking season again returns I have hopes that I can be on the grand old river and hear the eall of the wild ducks, the rifle-like crack of nitro powder and the whir of the wings of wildfowl. That is the life and the only life! So again tonight I’m thinking, — Days of youth, of dog and gun, Days of sport in days now olden, Long before life’s span was run. —Whipple. Wilham H. Wallace WILLIAM H. WALLACE Mr. William H. Wallace, of Saginaw, Michigan, has accomplished much in the way of conservation and propagation of wild water fowl, as well as of other game. He has devoted much study to this subject. Heisterman Island, a tract of 390 acres of hard land and marsh, lying about four miles from Bay Port in Wild Fowl Bay, is owned by Mr. Wallace. This island lies directly north of the big State marsh, in Saginaw Bay, owned by the State of Michigan. Heisterman Island, and Maison Island, of 196 acres, nearby, also owned by Mr. Wallace, are ideal for the breeding of duck and the owner has at considerable expense by protection and the planting of duck foods, added to it as a breeding place for wildfowl. A herd of deer also range the island in peace and security. Multifarious business eares preclude frequent visits to these ideal resorts, but his club house in season is ever at the service of his friends. Mr. Wallace has recently been elected a member of the Public Domain Commission, which directs the work of the Michigan State Game, Fish and Forest Fire De- partment. The Commission is to be congratulated upon having as one of its members a man who so thoroughly understands this great question of conservation and propagation of our wild life. WILLIAM H, WALLACE, Saginaw, Mich. Public Domain Commission. Bs : s o ‘ih iS jie << 7 on “* ¢ : = oe : i - Fe na is — ae 5 a : rf ~~ 4 rs = . ow A oa a) y oo, Ve —. | t hay e ie " - Jack Muiner---Natural Naturalist %6 } of WILLEY 8S. McCREA nf i Y An a ne 4 ne Vyas (ie JACK MINER, Kingsville, Ontario, Canada. Wild Goose Specialist. He has more practical knowledge of their habits than any man in the world. JACK MINER—NATURAL NATURALIST By Willey S. McCrea In dreams of the night I hear the call Of wild geese scudding across the lake, In dreams I see the old convent wall, Where Ottawa’s waters surge and break. —Drummond. Fd HE subject of this sketch occupies a decidedly movel position in the wild game-loving world. Born in the State of Ohio, he went with his father, who took a large family and settled in Canada about twenty miles southeast of Windsor when Jack was a lad of 13. That was some forty years ago when that section of Ontario was a dense forest. The Miner family started to hew out a home in surroundings that were absolutely ideal for any sport-loving boy. He and a brother some years his senior aided in every way to help change a wilderness into a prosperous farming country. As ameans of helping they soon began shoot- 66 DUCKING DAYS ing for the market and for many years earned consider- able money in that way. An unfortunate accident to the brother turned Miner’s thoughts into a different chan- nel, and, as the country was cleared, offering a feeding and resting place for vast numbers of wild geese on their annual migrations, he hit upon the idea of trying to get them to visit his place. Originally the effort was somewhat with the idea of sport, but this was soon turned to helping along the conservation movement. Having added to farming the manufacture of brick and drainage tile, he found the pools made in excavating clay needed for that industry convenient for his purpose. In 1904 he purchased a few wild geese and placed them at a pond which was actually located in his dooryard with his home and outbuildings on one side, and the tile factory not more than 500 or 600 feet away on another. Not until 1908 were his efforts rewarded and then but slightly. In that year sixteen called, of which six were shot. In 1909 about thirty-five appeared, from which number eight or ten were secured. In 1910 about 350 are estimated to have called during their Spring flight to the North. A few were shot that year, but very early that season it was decided to do no more killing, and since that time he has been overrun with visitors now that they are convinced of the sincerity of his hospitality. Public highway is in front of yard at left of picture, Showing pond and part of tile factory. Latter about 500 feet from house. JACK MINER—NATURAL NATURALIST 67 They come into the pond in great numbers and allow even strangers to approach within a few feet of them while they are feeding or resting. This enclosure is not to exceed 250 feet square. The pool, which has recently been slightly improved by a cement curb, is about 150 feet long and 110 feet wide. It is estimated that fre- quently there are from eight hundred to a thousand birds there at a time. At a distance of not more than 200 yards is a second pool to which the birds come in somewhat larger numbers. At this pool, curiously enough, the birds will not permit anyone sufficiently near for photographing, while many of those flushed at the time will circle and go into the dooryard pond where they can be approached within a few feet without being disturbed. The accompanying photographs were taken by an amateur standing within ten feet of the edge of the pond and without a blind of any sort. On Sundays and holidays scores of automobiles and hundreds of people frequently visit Miner’s unique pre- serve, and the geese come and go exactly as on other days during their stay. Miner has tagged quite a num- ber of these geese with a brass leg band, having had the permission of the Canadian Government to trap as many as he chose and mark them in that way. He has also tagged many wild mallards and from these and the geese has had returns of large numbers of his marks 68 DUCKING DAYS from places showing that the birds follow a rather clearly defined track in their journeyings backward and forward from the nesting grounds in the North to their winter home in the South. Miner has had practically no financial assistance in his work, and only very re- cently has the Canadian Government given any particu- lar help. Early in 1918 the authorities established a preserve about four square miles in extent, the center of which is Miner’s property. He gives much credit to the sportsmen of his home town, particularly to the boys, for quiet help they have afforded in not shooting too near his property. A few years ago Henry Ford’s people took some fine moving pictures at Miner’s place; and Miner gives a most enter- taining lecture, using the films and slides to illustrate what he has done. Miner himself is a real sportsman. For thirty-one years in succession he, oftentimes accom- panied by his whole family, has visited a camp in the Canadian woods, where they have secured all the trophies and pleasures ever found by people who love the great outdoors. What he has to show is absolutely unique and is well worth a visit during the season. In the Spring the geese are there for seven or eight weeks, depending somewhat upon weather conditions. One stormy day last March nearly 3,000 geese arrived in one day. In the Fall the visitors are much fewer in a ‘MIA T1NA NI SI YAHdVYSOLOHd NAHM SAUIG DNINOONI JACK MINER—-NATURAL NATURALIST 69 number and remain but a short time. The half-tones are from snap shots by an amateur and if studied a little will show how near the Miner family live to their welcome guests. Certain individual birds and flocks, with their young, have been identified as returning several successive sea- sons; one bird in particular, a hen mallard named Deli- lah, bred by Miner, has just returned for the sixth time. She spends each summer at her birthplace and has raised thirty-four ducklings at the home pond. Another female mallard named Polly has accompanied Delilah several seasons. From Delilah and Polly, who have raised their broods year after year, always taking them South in the Fall, and other birds tagged at his place, Miner has learned that wild ducks in going to the South and back each year lose ‘about 40 per cent. of their number. They all seem to go South by way of the east coast. So far as Jack knows, none of the migrants tagged at his place has ever visited the Pacific Coast. An interesting aspect of the recurring visits of these birds is the instinct, sagacity and reasoning powers dis- played in returning, knowing that they will obtain food and may rest unmolested on their long journeys. It is plain that our waterfowl should be credited with much more intelligence than has generally been accorded them. Gun and dog, my worldly treasures, Friends of many days like these, Close beside me, always trusty, With me there beneath the trees. —Whipple. Wild Ducks at Lake Merritt sc SN a: JOSEPH S. RUGLAND b Mb “a Rew ue aK WILD DUCKS AT LAKE MERRITT, CALIFORNIA By Joseph S. Rugland Oh the fire-flash and the star-dust and the wind among the leaves, And the mystery of all the secret night; And the beauty close about us that our mother Nature weaves, And the sweetness that she pours for our delight. —Fiske. OWARDS the last of January each season, as if realizing that the duck season is nearing its end, the great flocks of ducks which make Lake Merritt their winter home annually, are preparing to leave their beautiful haven for the north. Daily large numbers fly off towards colder weather. The park directors each year reserve the entire noth- ern area of the lake as the home of the wild ducks that remain here for the winter. Signs are erected across the entrance to the northern arm forbidding hunters to encroach upon the preserve for the city’s feathered pets. Employees of the city’s park department have fed the birds twice daily until this season (1919). Thou- sands of visitors have been attracted to the lake by the 74 DUCKING DAYS sight of these large numbers of waterfowl. This year they have not been fed, owing to the orders of Hoover & Co. Still there have been thousands of birds fre- quenting the neighborhood of the lake. The bay is full of bluebill, many thousands being in the shallow waters off Berkeley shore. One marvels at their boldness in venturing so close to civilization. ‘