Although the lake is but a poor fishing ground, it is a splendid place for ducks and geese. About a mile from the house, on the river side of the lake, is a long, narrow point, which stretches almost across to the opposite bank, and it is there that the best shooting is to be found. As it belongs to their father the boys have taken possession of it, and on the highest and dryest part, erected a rough board cabin which goes by the name of “Our Shooting-box.” It looks dreary enough in summer, with only a rusty stove and a few empty cupboards in it by way of furniture; but when the “melancholy days” are come, and the leaves begin to fall, and the autumnal winds to whistle dismally through the branches of the forest—when the trumpet-like notes of the first returning flock of brant are heard, then the shooting-box opens wide its hospitable door, and receives beneath the shelter of its roof a company of merry youngsters, who yearly congregate here to enjoy the splendid shooting the lake affords. Then the bare floor is covered with comfortable rugs, and there are camp chairs and lounges enough to accommodate all the young sportsmen who can crawl into the cabin. Then the cupboards are abundantly supplied with dishes, knives, forks and other table furniture, and everything in the way of provisions that hungry boys can ask for; and in the loft, which extends over half the room, are always to be found a barrel or two of hickory nuts, butternuts and pecans. And what sport the boys enjoy here in these days! A person who has once taken part in it, will willingly go a hundred miles to have more of it. The shooting is all done over decoys. These decoys are pieces of light wood shaped like ducks and geese, and painted to resemble them. And that they do resemble the natural bird very closely, is proved by the fact that more than one hunter has emptied his double-barrel into a flock of decoys and never discovered his mistake, until the disgusted owner of the wooden birds jumped up from behind his blind and demanded to know what he was about.
These decoys are anchored off the point of which we have spoken, and Don and Bert, and the rest of the young hunters, hide behind their blinds—little breastworks of bushes erected on shore—and with their guns in their hands, hold themselves in readiness to shoot at the first flock that comes within range. And they are never obliged to wait long. The wild fowl, in passing from one end of the lake to the other, discover what they suppose to be a company of their friends swimming in perfect security near the shore, and stop to pay them a visit; but just as they swing to the decoys, their ranks are decimated by the double-barrels, and it is a lucky flock that gets off without leaving a dozen or more of its number behind. The birds being gone, Don’s pointers, which are crouching behind the blind by their master’s side, retrieve the dead and wounded in the most approved style; and when they are all brought in the boys are ready for another flock. When night comes they are sure to be very tired and hungry, and to have as many birds as they care to carry home. They are equally certain to find a smoking supper waiting for them on their arrival at the shooting-box, and old Cuff ready to receive them with open arms.
During the evening they fight their battles over again—telling of that fine shot made at such a distance that a miss seemed certain, or that clear miss made when the bird ought to have been easily brought to bag—and at last go to bed to pass through the same exciting scenes again in their dreams. We do not blame Don and his friends for thinking a good deal of that little shooting-box, for we passed one of the pleasantest months of our life there.
Having seen the grounds and glanced at all the interesting things outside the house, let us go in for a few minutes. The wide front door stands invitingly open—there is no danger to be apprehended from tramps and sneak-thieves in this out-of-the-way place—and being well acquainted with all the inmates, and feeling quite at home here, we enter without ceremony. Passing along the hall and turning to the left we find a second door, also standing open, and this leads us into the apartment occupied by Don and his brother as a sitting and school room. They study and recite their lessons here, and when their school duties are over, they have the room to themselves. It is neatly furnished, and in it are many of those things which Dan Evans seems to regard as indispensable aids to happiness. Of course he does not include books and papers in the list, but we think they are very necessary, and so do Don and Bert. Their library is small but well chosen, and made up almost entirely of books from which they can learn something.
We enter the room on the afternoon of the same day on which Dan Evans came over to ask for five of the ten dollars that Don had promised David for field-breaking his young pointer. We have seen that he got the money, and that he went away leaving Bert reading a book. We find him engaged in the same pleasing occupation. He reads for a few minutes, and then placing the book on his knee, gazes thoughtfully out at the trees in the yard.
“I don’t see why it can’t be done,” he says, to himself. “Father has a light spring wagon that I know he would let us take, and we have two good ponies to draw it. We couldn’t put up at a hotel while we are gone, but who cares for that? We own a good tent, and if we should take old Cuff along to act as cook and camp-keeper, we could live as well as we do at home or at the shooting-box.”
The book Bert has been reading, and which suggests this train of thought, is Frank Forester’s “Deer Stalkers.” It tells how Harry Archer and two companions went on a deer hunt somewhere in the state of New York, and how they enjoyed themselves. It is one of Don’s favorite books; and the reason Bert reads it to-day is because it happened to be the first one he picked up when he came into the room. While he read the thought occurred to him that if he and his brother should follow in the lead of the heroes of the book, they could spend a few days very pleasantly. They had everything needful for a week’s sojourn in the woods, or a month’s, and a trip like that would just suit Don. Their school term would be over in a week—their tutor was going north to spend the holidays with his friends—and Don, who had grown very fond of him and of his books, wondered how he was going to pass the time during his absence. Of course there was the shooting-box, but one does not care to spend two whole months in duck hunting, and Don had often been heard to declare that he wished he could go somewhere and spend a week as he had never spent one before. Bert thought he had hit upon something that would please him. He had heard wonderful reports of late of the abundance of game to be found in an adjoining county, forty miles away. Deer were so plenty that they had been seen in the corn-fields; a bear had been known to approach a lonely farm house in broad daylight and walk off with a pig; and one day a hunter, who was roaming the woods with his pack of hounds, encountered some animal in a dense cane-brake which almost annihilated his dogs, and made off before the hunter could shoot him. The man did not know what sort of an animal it was, for the cane was so thick that he could not see him; but there was only one thing in that part of the country that could whip out a pack of hounds so easily and completely, and that was a panther. Bert did not like the idea of encountering such game as this, but Don would not have hesitated a minute. Besides being famous as a wing shot, and being very fond of the breech-loader which created such havoc among the ducks, snipe and quails, he took care to have it known that he had bagged nobler game; and when he exhibited the old-fashioned muzzle loading rifle which his father had given him, and with which he had brought down his first deer, he never forgot to mention that four very fine bucks and one two year old bear had fallen to that same gun.
“Don would make a capital Harry Archer,” said Bert, continuing the soliloquy we have interrupted, “he is so fearless and enthusiastic. Old Cuff would make a very good Jim Matlock—he’s black, but still he’ll do—and instead of Smoke, the Scotch greyhound that could perform such wonders in the way of running and pulling down deer, we shall have, if we have a mind to take them with us, six of the best hounds that ever came from Kentucky. There’ll be nothing wanting, unless it be a Harry Barhyte or a Ned Wheeler to get us into some sort of a scrape. If they should turn up, it would make it all the more interesting for Don. The thought of meeting one of the panthers, which they say are plenty in the cane-brakes, is not a very pleasant one, and almost makes me say that I will stay at home; but, now that I come to think of it, we need not camp out an hour unless we please. Bob Harrington lives over there, in the very midst of the wilderness, and we’d be welcome at his house as long as we chose to stop with him. Halloa!” he added aloud, as a step was heard in the hall, and his brother came rapidly into the room. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You’re always thinking of somebody besides yourself,” replied Don, drawing a chair to his brother’s side and flourishing a letter which he held in his hand. “Your face tells me that you have something pleasant on your mind: what is it? Let us have all the sunshine we can, for the clouds are coming—one cloud at least.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Bert, who thought by the scowl on his brother’s face that the clouds had come already, “and whom is that letter from?”