amp was pitched
within the corral, and while the cook got supper we stood in the
after-glow on the bank of the tank and saw the ducks come home, heard
the mud-hens squddle, while high in the air flew the long line of
sand-hill cranes with a hoarse clangor. It was quite dark when we sat on
the "grub" chests and ate by the firelight, while out in the desert the
coyotes shrilled to the monotonous accompaniment of the mules crunching
their feed and stamping wearily. To-morrow it was proposed to hunt ducks
in their morning flight, which means getting up before daylight, so bed
found us early. It seemed but a minute after I had sought my blankets
when I was being abused by the Captain, being pushed with his
foot--fairly rolled over by him--he even standing on my body as he
shouted, "Get up, if you are going hunting. It will be light
directly--get up!" And this, constantly recurring, is one reason why I
do not care for duck-shooting.

But, in order to hunt, I had to get up, and file off in the line of
ghosts, stumbling, catching, on the chaparral, and splashing in the mud.
I led a setter-dog, and was presently directed to sit down in some damp
grass, because it was a good place--certainly not to sit down in, but
for other reasons. I sat there in the dark, petting the good dog, and
watching the sky grow pale in the east. This is not to mention the
desire for breakfast, or the damp, or the sleepiness, but this is really
the larger part of duck-hunting. Of course if I later had a dozen good
shots it might compensate--but I did not have a dozen shots.

The day came slowly out of the east, the mud-hens out in the marsh
splashed about in the rushes, a sailing hawk was visible against the
gray sky overhead, and I felt rather insignificant, not to say
contemptible, as I sat there in the loneliness of this big nature which
worked around me. The dog dignified the situation--he was a part of
nature's belongings--while I somehow did not seem to grace the solitude.
The grays slowly grew into browns on the sedge-grass, and the water to
silver. A bright flash of fire shot out of the dusk far up in the gloom,
and the dull report of a shot-gun came over the tank. Black objects fled
across the sky--the ducks were flying. I missed one or two, and grew
weary--none came near enough to my lair. Presently it was light, and I
got a fair shot. My bird tumbled into the rushes out in front of me, and
the setter bounded in to retrieve. He searched vehem