Many of the natives are professional gunners, and haunt the marshes day and night, shooting for market, and thus making a living. If one cannot shoot, one may resort to these people and purchase a boat load. It is, however, a reprehensible practice.
There is no tide in the Sound except that which is caused by the wind, and as high water and a stiff breeze are essential to good sport, it is not possible to have good shooting every day. When the wind comes from the right quarter it makes a full tide, and drives the fowl nearer the shore and up into the creeks where they may feed.
It was getting toward the end of our sojourn; we had experienced several quiet balmy days—no wind, low water, general listlessness. "Should we have any more fun?" we asked, and went to bed. About midnight the wind came howling through the trees, the weather became cold, and the rattling windows responded to the hope of a good day to-morrow. Getting our breakfast early, we selected our points and hastened to the boats. Dark clouds, flying over a dull wintry sky, denoted a steady blow—it was cheering. The blinds were quickly reached, and decoys thrown out. Only a few birds were flying, the fitful wind becoming higher and higher and then dying out entirely. The clouds, however, soon drifted away, the sun appeared as bright and beautiful as summer—almost persuading us to take off our coats. Disheartened at the coquettish nature of the weather, we gave it up. Not a bird to be seen—we took our bottles, and throwing our heads back on our shoulders, tried to look through the bottoms of them—they in turn gave out a gurgling sound of complaining emptiness. We fell into a refreshing sleep; the hours passed away unheeded, until we were awakened by the rustling of the reeds bending in the breeze, whispering of the coveted blow. Heavy black clouds were gathering, and soon old Boreas came cracking out from the right point of the compass.
FIVE AT A SHOT.
This aroused the ducks in the open water to flight, and they came in, seeking the shelter of the shore—a fatal protection. Charles, the original explorer of the Sound as a sporting place, and founder of the "Raymond Hall" Club, did some good work—taking them, right and left, with each barrel, and dropping single blue-winged teal with unerring aim.
Theodoric is the most amiable, patient friend imaginable; can conduct a bank equal to any man in New York; and we all esteem him very much. He labors under the mild hallucination, however, that he must be constantly doing something, and nearly all this is expended in cleaning his gun. Morning and evening it undergoes this polishing process, and on Sunday he rests himself by giving it another wipe.
"It's a little leaded, you know, George," he remarks, and at it he goes. Human nature may stand this, but guns won't.
On one occasion when he tried to jam a cleaning rod through it, larger than the bore, it refused to go.
