Beside Summer Ducks, Mr. Dickinson had, at the period of my visit, Dusky Ducks, better known as Black Ducks, Green-winged Teal, Golden-eyes, and I think Widgeon; but the Summer Ducks were by far the tamest, as the Dusky Ducks were the wildest of the company. I should long ago have attempted to naturalize them on my own place, but that a large river, the Passaic, washing the lower end of my lawn and garden, from which it would not be possible to exclude them, I have felt that it is useless to attempt it, the rather that there is a large patch of wild-rice immediately adjoining me, which would tempt them to the water, whence they would drift away with the current or the tide, and be lost or shot in no time.
The best time for shooting and for eating these fowl is late in October, when the acorns and beechmast, of both of which they are inordinately fond, lie thick and ripe on the woodland banks of the streams and pools they love to frequent. And this reminds me of a little sketch, illustrative of their habits, taken down almost verbatim, from the lips of a right good fellow, and at that time a right good sportsman also; though now, alas! the untimely loss of the inestimable blessing of eyesight has robbed him, among other sources of enjoyment, of that favorite and innocent pastime—the forest chase:
“Are there many Wood Ducks about this season, Tom?” asked Forester, affecting to be perfectly careless and indifferent to all that had passed. “Did you kill these yourself?”
“There was a sight on them a piece back, but they’re gittin’ scase—pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot these down by Aunt Sally’s big spring-hole a Friday. I’d been a lookin’ round, you see, to find where the quail kept afore you came up here—for I’d a been expectin’ you a week and better—and I’d got in quite late, toward sundown, with an outsidin’ bevy, down by the cedar swamp, and druv them off into the big bog meadows, below Sugarloaf, and I’d killed quite a bunch on them—sixteen, I reckon, Archer; and there wasn’t but eighteen when I lit on ’em—and it was gittin’ pretty well dark when I came to the big spring, and little Dash was worn dead out, and I was tired, and hot, and thunderin’ thirsty, so I sets down aside the outlet where the spring water comes in good and cool, and I was mixin’ up a nice, long drink in the big glass we hid last summer down in the mud-hole, with some great cider sperrits—when what should I hear all at once but whistle, whistlin’ over head, the wings of a whole drove on ’em, so up I buckled the old gun; but they’d plumped down into the crick fifteen rod off or better, down by the big pin oak, and there they sot, seven ducks and two big purple-headed drakes—beauties, I tell you. Well, boys, I upped gun and tuck sight stret away, but just as I was drawin’, I kind o’ thought I’d got two little charges of number eight, and that to shoot at ducks at fifteen rod wasn’t nauthen. Well, then, I fell a thinkin’, and then I sairched my pockets, and arter a piece found two green cartridges of number three, as Archer gave me in the spring, so I drawed out the small shot, and inned with these, and put fresh caps on to be sarten. But jest when I’d got ready, the ducks had floated down with the stream, and dropped behind the pint—so I downed on my knees, and crawled, and Dash alongside on me, for all the world as if the darned dog knowed; well, I crawled quite a piece, till I’d got under a bit of alder bush, and then I seen them—all in a lump like, except two—six ducks and a big drake—feedin’, and stickin’ down their heads into the weeds, and flutterin’ up their hinder eends, and chatterin’ and jokin’—I could have covered them all with a handkercher, exceptin’ two, as I said afore, one duck and the little drake, and they was off a rod or better from the rest, at the two different sides of the stream—the big bunch warn’t over ten rods off me, nor so far; so I tuck sight right at the big drake’s neck. The water was quite clear and still, and seemed to have caught all the little light as was left by the sun, for the skies had got pretty dark, I tell you; and I could see his head quite clear agin the water—well, I draw’d trigger, and the hull charge ripped into ’em—and there was a scrabblin’ and a squatterin’ in the water now, I tell you—but not one on ’em riz—not the fust one of the hull bunch; but up jumped both the others, and I drawed on the drake—more by the whistlin’ of his wings, than that I seen him—but I drawed stret, Archer, any ways; and arter I’d pulled half a moment I hard him plump down into the crick with a splash, and the water sparkled up like a fountain where he fell. So then I didn’t wait to load, but ran along the bank as hard as I could strick it, and when I’d got down to the spot, I tell you, little Dash had got two on ’em out afore I came, and was in with a third. Well, sich a cuttin’ and a splashin’ as there was you niver did see, none on you—I guess, for sartin—leastwise I niver did. I’d killed, you see, the drake and two ducks, dead at the first fire, but three was only wounded, wing-tipped, and leg-broken, and I can’t tell you what all. It was all of nine o’clock at night, and dark as all out doors, afore I gathered them three ducks, but I did gather ’em; Lord, boys, why I’d stayed till mornin’, but I’d a got them, sarten. Well, the drake I killed flyin’ I couldn’t find him that night, no how, for the stream swept him down, and I hadn’t got no guide to go by, so I let him go then, but I was up next mornin’ bright and airly, and started up the stream clean from the bridge here, up through Garry’s back-side, and my bog-hole, and so on along the meadows to Aunt Sally’s run—and looked in every willow bush that dammed the waters back, like, and every bunch of weeds and brier-brake, all the way, and sure enough I found him, he’d been killed dead, and floated down the crick, and then the stream had washed him up into a heap of broken sticks and briers, and when the waters fell, for there had been a little freshet, they left him there breast uppermost—and I was glad to find him—for I think, Archer, as that shot was the nicest, prettiest, etarnal, darndest, long, good shot, I iver did make, anyhow; and it was so dark I couldn’t see him.”
Many of his friends and mine will recognize the character, to whom I allude, as he figures largely in the pages of “The Warwick Woodlands,” from which the above extract is taken, of “My Shooting-box,” and the other sporting scenes of Frank Forester, wherein nothing good or generous or kind is related of Tom Draw, that does not fall far short of the reality.
Before closing this article, I will correct an error into which I perceive I have inadvertently fallen in the first page of it, wherein I said that this duck, alone of the family, has the habit of perching, roosting, and nesting on trees.
I should have said alone of the American family; for I find a note by Mr. Brewer, the last editor of Wilson, annexed to his article on our bird, which I prefer to subjoin instead of merely making a verbal alteration, since I doubt not many others are in the same error, who will be glad to be corrected in detail. It appears, as will be seen below, that, although there are no European tree-ducks, nor any other American, there is a family of Asiatic and African congeners of our Summer Duck, for which an especial name has been proposed, though not as yet generally adopted. I might add that the present Latin name of our bird, anas sponsa, signifies, being interpreted, the bride duck, from the rare elegance of its form and beauty of its plumage—a pretty name for a pretty creature.
“These lovely ducks may be said to represent an incessorial form among the anatidæ; they build and perch on trees, and spend as much time on land as upon the waters; Dr. Richardson has given this group, containing few members, the title of dendronessa from their arboreal habits. Our present species is the only one belonging to America, where it ranges rather to the south than north; the others, I believe, are all confined to India. They are remarkable for the beauty and splendor of their plumage, its glossy, silky texture, and for the singular form of the scapulars, which, instead of an extreme development in length, receive it in the contrary proportion of breadth; and instead of lying flat, in some stand perpendicular to the back. They are all adorned with an ample crest, pendulous, and running down the back of the neck. They are easily domesticated, but I do not know that they have been yet of much utility in this state, being more kept on account of their beauty, and few have been introduced except to our menageries; with a little trouble at first, they might form a much more common ornament about our artificial pieces of water. It is the only form of a Tree Duck common to this continent; in other countries there are, however, two or three others of very great importance in the natural system, whose structure and habits have yet been almost entirely overlooked or lost sight of. These seem to range principally over India, and more sparingly in Africa; and the Summer Duck is the solitary instance, the United States the nearly extreme limit, of its own peculiarities in this division of the world.”
With this note I close this paper, expressing only the hope that the bird will become more largely domesticated; as no more beautiful adornment can be conceived to the parks and shrubberies of gentlemen, such more especially as possess the advantages of small inland rivulets, or pieces of ornamental water, whether natural or artificial.