Idle Hours in a Blind

It often falls to the lot of those who frequent the blind to sit for hours on calm, still days when no fowl are stirring, and when, after a time, the sweetness of that tried friend, the corncob pipe, grows insipid. At such times, if alone, you grow drowsy, and struggle with the feeling, knowing that to succumb is to lose perhaps the only shot of the day, which, with unerring fatality, always presents itself when you are least expecting it. Not every day does the sportsman return laden with game (of his own killing), and, wherever found, his past records many blanks on the calendar of his shooting experience -- a day's tramp with nothing to show for it, or a lazy snoozing in the blind under the warm sunshine of a cloudless sky. He has cast longing glances toward the rafts of fowl sitting quietly at rest on the glassy surface far out of shot and drawing the few stragglers who may be on the wing, despite the attractions of his decoys, a tempting flock of which he has carefully placed. Oh! for a rifle to send a ball skipping into their midst and send them scattering off, trusting to drop a couple as they whirl wildly this way and that. Give up wishing, my friend, and devote your attention to the little circle in your own immediate neighborhood, and, my word for it, you will be surprised to find how active Nature is down there among the reeds; and at the same time you may acquire such information as to the manner of life in such locations, and find the hours slip pleasantly by while so employed, all the time keeping an eye open for any opportunity that presents to "cut loose" at approaching fowl.

In Sinepuxent Bay, on the Maryland coast, near Beach House Point, are numerous sedgy islands, separated from the main marsh and from each other by shallow stretches of water, which, when the tide is out, are bare mud flats, teeming with small oxeyes and all sorts of waders, who find abundant feeding ground there. Sitting alone in the tall, dry sedge, you listen to the wind and ever-changing voices and cries in the great brown marsh spreading on every side. The sun has come around in front and, as he blazes on the water, sends the reflection of the burning rays full in your face, nearly blinding you. Lie down; you need a change of position, and the fowl will not stir until the breeze springs up at sunset. How sweetly that meadow-lark's song sounds out there among the sedge. While listening to its repetition you become conscious of a faint "scrunch, scrunch." A pause; then "scrunch, scrunch, scrunch" again; and turning softly on your elbow and carefully watching you catch sight of a little creature busily gnawing among the reed stalks, and, as he turns his square, chubby face toward you, you recognize the marsh rat. What brilliant black beads he has for eyes. Don't move! Watch him. His sleek coat testifies that wholesome food is plenty where he lives. Now he sits upon his haunches, like a miniature squirrel, and washes his face with his little pink paws. Ha! he has spied you. What a sudden change; what an expression of intense curiosity appears on that fuzzy little visage. He is afraid, certainly; but you plainly see that he is curious. His nose works energetically up and down as he endeavors to snuff you, while sundry little squeaks plainly tell of his excitement at discovering you. Move ever so little, and off he scuttles in the most laughable manner.

A few moments after a buckchip dashes into the reeds with a noisy flutter, and is soon in angry altercation with a little brown wren, who, for some time past, has been poking around close by, with a most business-like air, darting here and there like a mouse in the reeds, so quick are her motions. After a noisy wrangle chip gives it up, and perches on a tall reed, where he swings up and down, flirts his long tail, and, by his manner, appears to be heaping abuse on his more plucky little antagonist unconcernedly grubbing below. He soon grows tired, however, and with that strong whirr of wings, so indicative of health and freedom, is off.

The tide is down, and numbers of small snipe are scampering over the mud searching for food. Wait until they bunch. There! enough for a pot-pie anyway; and very toothsome these little fellows be, I assure you.

Whew-w-w-ew-ew, a flock of killdeer plover alight on the mud far out of shot. How graceful they are; now running zigzag across the flat, now bunching and squatting down together to compare notes, their white sides showing plainly against the dark color of the mud. A weird feeling comes over you at their cry, repeated in rapid succession, now high, now low, as the fancy seems to take them, and the uncomfortable effect is heightened by their wailing as it grows momentarily darker, the sun having set, until in sheer desperation you rise and with a whoop force them to leave. The moon comes up cool and solitary over the sand dunes on the beach, and the chill flies all over you at the sound of a heron's cry who has stationed himself somewhere in your vicinity, and now booms away until it seems as though the sound was all around, above, below, everywhere. Swash, ah! you know what that is; a low quack, very guarded, as though he suspected all was not exactly right, betrays the presence of a black-duck. Slowly he swims into sight, and just as you draw a bead on him, whir-r-r-r, away he goes, and as the beat of his wings grows fainter, you hear the steady chunk-a-lunk, chunk-a-lunk of oars in the oarlocks as Tom pulls across after you. You take up your rig, and as you glide along the water in your little punt, you involuntarily start as the ghost-like form of a mouse-hunting owl flits past. Nearing your snug quarters on board the sloop, you see the dew glistening on deck like diamonds in the bright moonlight. The blue smoke that curls slowly up from the stovepipe in the cabin roof shows that Brunt has the coffee on, and stepping aboard, his cheery voice salutes you, "What luck, old man?" and his hearty laugh greets your little string of oxeyes. No game, to be sure, but you have enjoyed yourself notwithstanding, and in after years, when you hear the plaintive cry of passing birds coming down through the still night, that evening on the marsh will come back to your mind with a strange fascination.

DICK