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for; there are some constantly in the air, those coming first set their wings, coming in to the decoys; somewhere in sight of these, but unseen by us, are others, perhaps a mile off. They see their kind circling around or alighting, and go where they are; others see these and do the same. Thus while we see but few coming in, several different lots are approaching us at different distances, from various points. This is how it happens that one often kills anywhere from 6 to 15 birds, almost as fast as he can load and shoot. But why dwell on what we do for the next few hours? We have found their retreat, they come in from all directions, not sufficiently fast to heat one's gun, but with enough regularity to make it interesting, and not tedious by long waits between shots. We enjoy the sport, enjoy seeing one another make difficult shots, enjoy the keen air, the cool November day. As you look at your watch a surprised look is seen on your face, and much to your astonishment it is six o'clock. Faintly we hear the whistles sounding that hour in the adjacent towns. Do not let the excitement of the evening flight cause you to forget the absolute necessity of taking your bearings in the marsh, for when the shades of night settle on the swamp, you will be lost for the time being, and your lack of forethought may force you to pass the night in your boat. Mark the way you came in by some tall tree, or bluffs, that you know in the darkness will loom up against the sky, or any other way that you can depend on. If in a strange marsh, or in unknown woods, don't take any chances; for unless you have experienced it, you can form no accurate idea of the perfect blank your whole surroundings will present. Better lose the late shooting

than take any such chances; besides, if you expect to shoot in the same spot the following day, it is much better to depart before dark and allow the birds to settle there in the twilight undisturbed for the night, they will decoy much better on the morrow. If you stay until pitch dark, the flames from your gun frighten them much more than any reports they hear during daylight. In the daytime they expect it, but when night comes, and once they are driven from their roost, they avoid that spot in the future.

Where we are now is perfectly familiar to me, and we will stay till dark. We will gather up the decoys now, for soon darkness will be on us, and we cannot do it then; besides, decoys in the faint light do but little good. When ducks come in in the twilight, they come to spend the night, never dream of danger, and swoop in with a swish that shows their fearlessness. Come, now that we have picked the decoys up, we will cross over and stay until dark, on the east edge of the rice, facing the west; because the reflection of the setting sun on the sky brings the birds plainer to view. Look to the west! See how bright the sky is; how beautiful after the setting of the sun! Notice those tiny clouds. From here they seem but a trifling height above the horizon, their under edges touched with crimson and gold, their centre of lavender and black, while their tips seem of crustated whiteness. Turn around now, look to the east, and see the contrast. No bright colors, no brilliant contrasts; simply one gray, dull, and lifeless pall overspreading the earth. For a few moments we are kept busy firing at the incoming ducks, each striving to drop them into the open water. They come in from all points of the com

pass in perfect recklessness, the "whewing" of their set wings vibrating through the air. No need of blinds now, no opportunity for calculating shots; but we see a dark meteor shoot hastily by, fire quickly, then listen for the expected splash we know the duck will make as it strikes the water. Unexpectedly one drops into the water within ten feet of us. We dare not shoot, knowing, if hit, the bird would be blown to pieces. We splash the water, still unseen and unobserved by the duck; then we speak. At the sound of human voices we see the water slightly ripple as the duck rises, a dark shadow for an instant, and the bird seems to dissolve in the darkness. As we pick our way through the swamp you recognize your helplessness in this dark, strange place. But guided and directed by our neverfailing friend-the North Star-we emerge after an hour's hard and patient work on the Mississippi River. We cross over to Camanche, from there take the steamer for home, tired, hungry, and happy, well pleased with our day's sport, and mentally deciding who among our friends will be favored when we make a division of our 112 ducks.

CHAPTER XII.

SHOVELER, OR SPOON BILL.

THE Shoveler or Spoonbill duck is a frequenter of almost all Western waters. They are a queer-looking bird, and once seen will not be readily forgotten. Their bill is a peculiar one, being like some streams, both broad and deep, and appears like an abnormal development added to their otherwise pretty shape. That nature has aided them with a bill different in its formation from any other is apparent, but the wherefore is beyond my comprehension. Possibly, the sins of their parents have been visited upon them, and those we have among us are of the third, may be, of the fourth generation, and they are compelled to suffer by reason of the sins committed by their ancestors. If so, Nature has certainly prepared them to shovel their way through, for she has given them a bill spoon-shaped, with which they can dig, shovel or scoop as they desire. I remember the first one I saw. It was a female. After it was shot, the dog retrieved it. I thought it was a young mallard, and casting an astonished look at it, my tender heart softened and I wondered how this young mallard had flattened out her bill; but my experienced companion soon set me right, when he told me it was a shoveler; that the bird was worthy and deserving of the name was unquestionable. Its great bill proclaimed it with silent eloquence. This then, was the plebeian of

the duck tribe, a tiller of the soil, a granger; and nature had furnished it with never-failing tools. The little teal, with its fire-shovel of a bill; the canvas-back with its spade; the mallard with its common shovels; were all insignificant in the rice beds, when compared to the scoop-shovel of the spoonbill, or shoveler. When it comes to digging in the mud, it is the section boss of the swamps, and all the rest of the ducks swim or waddle to one side when one of these little fellows gets his every day clothes on, and scoops and shovels among the roots and tender grass. They recognize him as an artist in this line, and accord him a fair field, but no favor. He has no competitors for speed and displacement of soil, for they all know full well, that they are mere infants with wooden spoons compared with him, when he brings into active operations that post-borer of a bill, propelled by such expert motive power.

The shoveler duck frequents marshy places, and is readily decoyed and easily killed. Their flight is swift, usually huddled together, and many may be killed at one discharge of the gun. When frightened, they spring from the marsh perpendicularly like the pintail. No. 6 or 7 shot are the proper size to use.

Anas Clypeata. The Blue-winged Shoveler is twenty inches long, and two feet six inches in extent. The bill is brownish black, three inches in length, greatly widened near the extremity, closely pectinated on the sides, and furnished with a nail on the tip of each mandible; irides, bright orange; tongue, large and fleshy; the inside of the upper and the outside of the

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