Wildfowl

STOCKTON, Md., Oct. 10. -- Since my last writing I have received no less than fifty letters inquiring about land for sale down here. So to save myself from endless writing, I will say there are no farms here on the bay for sale. Back in the country quite a number can be found, and very cheap; but away from the water I consider them dear at any price. There is an island here for sale, but it has no advantages over the main land, and is just as far from the gunning grounds. Many have tried to live there, but all give it up as a dismal, lonely failure.

Already a few ducks are in the bay, sea coot, sleepy coot and shell ducks, also a few bunches of geese. There appear to be less black ducks on the marshes than usual; they must have hatched badly or they have been killed off; however, many will come down from the North later on. There has been no shooting on the bay yet; nearly all wait for election day, and then open the season on shelducks. No one here shoots either coot or south southerly ducks, not even the colored population. There is an odor about them while cooking that hangs to the stove, the house, the dishes and even the table long after the offending fowl has been safely covered with earth, for I have never seen cats or dogs hungry enough to eat these fishy, oily, high-smelling birds. There is an unusually heavy crop of grass on the shoals, and I look to see a great season with the wildfowl. Last season was a banner one -- more ducks and better shooting than for many years. The prospects are that this year will be even better, for the grass is much thicker this year, and every spot seems to be covered.

I have been busy getting my boats in order, and patching up and painting decoys. There is something about the mending and painting of stool ducks that makes me linger over the task far longer than the work really calls for. Here is one all full of shot. Poor Mr. -------- tried to pot a redhead; this was all he got. That goose decoy with a broken neck. My! what a shot that was -- 70yds at least. The old gander, with his 14lbs. of flesh and fat, dropped like a plummet on the stool, smashing its neck like a match stick. And so it goes, shot marks, broken bills, chipped sides, lost heads -- each and every one has its own memory. I have one decoy with the top of its head gone. I covered it up with paint and let the old head stand. S. did that. How we all laughed! "Gentlemen," said he, "that is drinks on me; here, help yourselves; I am out." Little we thought then that in three short months he would indeed be out -- out of all our lives and the lives of nearer and dearer ones. A true sportsman, kind and considerate, with a pleasant word for all, he has passed out into the great beyond, with its unknown limits that we too must explore. I wonder can he see me here with this broken decoy? Does he know I have left this splintered head in his remembrance? Who can say?

O. D. FOULKS.