“What is that for?” asked Norling.
“Well, you see, if you are aiming too high you see a long white mark, if too low you cannot see it at all, and when just right you only see a small white spot, and when shooting by moonlight this enables you to shoot with a good deal of accuracy,” I replied.
“Come on, now, and be careful. A step in this dry grass would make noise enough to send every duck out of that pond. Follow this cow path and keep down low so they won’t see your head over the dump. The pond is nearly full of water.”
We were nearly half way, now, and it would not do to talk, not even to whisper, as a duck has very sharp hearing. The sharp whistle call of the sprig tail seemed to nearly drown the quack, quack of the mallard, and the splash, splash of the water against the dam told us we had but a few yards farther to go. At the foot of the dam we crawled on hands and knees until by stepping to our feet our heads and shoulders were above the dump. And then such a sight! The slight noise we made as we rose to our feet caused every duck in the water and on the banks to turn in our direction, and the rays of the moon fell on their white breasts and was reflected back here and there by an open patch of water. But only for an instant did this scene remain. Just one quick glance and then our guns came to our shoulders, a long white streak, then a small white dot in line with a thousand white breasts, a flash and a sharp report, followed by the greatest quacking, splashing and whirr of wings I had ever heard. So great was the noise made by the immense flock taking wing that I could not hear the report of the second barrel of my own gun. A few more shots were fired at crippled ducks that were still able to swim, a short wait for the wind to drift the dead ones to the bank, and then we picked up thirty-one dead ducks, all stopped by our first four shots. Sport and meat enough for one night?
Just write me a line a few days before you come and I will meet you at the train; and, by the way, I have some colts three years old by The Peacher, 2.17¼, pacing at two years old, and by the summaries the best sire of the season owned in Kansas. These colts are out of mares by Bertran, 2.20, and Capitalist, 2.29½, and they can step some, too. Better come about the 10th of March.
Yours truly,
George Beuoy.
THE DREAM AND THE BUSINESS
(Hobbes)
The year 1906 was pre-eminently a year of the so-called fiction of psychology. This is hardly a passing fad. The more enlightened and cultured a people, the more are they interested in character study. Men and women and motives are more entertaining than mere beauty of description, or complicated plot. And the really successful novels of the year are written by women, and seem to be concerned with the intricate workings of the feminine mind.