ghtest hesitation, which shows the value of live decoys.
The mallard is ordinarily a wily bird and circles your pond a number of
times before deciding to come in to wooden decoys. At the proper moment
I got to my feet, and, by good fortune, knocked down two fat
green-heads.

They fell with a splash right among my ducks. Did the latter exhibit
alarm over either the double concussion of the gun or this fall of
defunct game from above? Not at all! they were tickled to death. Each
swam vigorously around and around at the limit of his tether, ruffling
his plumage and waggling his tail with the utmost vigour.

"Well, I rather think we fooled that bunch!" said they, one to another.
"Did you ever see an easier lot? Came right down without a look! If the
Captain had been here he'd have killed a half dozen of the chumps before
they got out of range!" and so on. For your experienced decoy always
seems to enjoy the game hugely, and to enter into it with much
enthusiasm and intelligence. And all the while the flock of wooden
decoys headed unanimously up wind, and bobbed in the wavelets; and the
sun went on gilding the mountains to the west.

Next a flock of teal whirled down wind, stooped, and were gone like a
flash. I got in both barrels; and missed both. The dissatisfaction of
this was almost immediately mitigated by a fine smash at a flock of
sprig that went by overhead at extreme long range, but from which I
managed to bring down a fine drake. When the shot hit him he faltered,
then, still flying, left the ranks at an acute angle, sloping ever the
quicker downward, until he fell on a long slant, his wings set, his neck
still outstretched. I marked the direction as well as I could, and
immediately went in search of him. Fortunately he lay in the open, quite
dead. Looking back, I could see another good flock fairly hovering over
the decoys.

The sun came up, and grew warm. The wind died. I took off my sweater.
Between flights I basked deliciously. The affair was outside of all
precedent and reason. A duck shooter ought to be out in a storm, a good
cold storm. He ought to break the scum ice when he puts out his decoys.
He ought to sit half frozen in a wintry blast, his fingers numb, his
nose blue, his body shivering. That sort of discomfort goes with duck
shooting. Yet here I was sitting out in a warm, summerlike day in my
shirt sleeves, waiting comfortably--and the ducks were coming in, too!

After a time I heard the mighty r