approached within hearing distance. "You got to practise until your
forefinger works all by itself--entirely separate from the rest of your
arm. Then the rifle won't jerk sideways so much."
"All right," Mr. Kincaid responded, as Bobby climbed laboriously into
the cart. "Try it."
Bobby tried it; found it difficult to accomplish, and not altogether
effective. The bullets still scattered more or less like a shotgun
charge. Mr. Kincaid's score more than doubled his. Mr. Kincaid always
shot the best he could; and entered a grave negative to Bobby's
tentative suggestion for a handicap.
"No, Bobby," said he, "don't believe in 'em. It really doesn't matter
whether you defeat me or not; now does it? But it does matter whether
you get to be a good enough shot to win."
After each demolition of his ideas, Bobby returned a trifle dashed, but
with undaunted spirit. Again his busy brain attacked the puzzle. In a
week he had another hypothesis ready for the test.
Thus he edged slowly but surely toward marksmanship. The sight must be
held on the mark for an instant after the discharge; the trigger must
be squeezed steadily, not pulled; the independent command of the
forefinger is helped by as inclusive a grasp of the stock as possible;
holding the breath is an aid to steadiness--these, and a dozen other
first principles, Bobby acquired, one after another, by the slow
inductive process. Each helped; and Mr. Kincaid appreciated that his
pupil was learning intelligently, so that in the final result Bobby
would not only be a good shot, but he would know why.
In the meantime various changes were taking place in the seasons, which
Bobby noted in his own fashion. The little green apples of summer--just
right for throwing and for casting from the end of a switch--were now
large and rosy. Under the big hickory tree in the Fuller's yard were
already to be found occasional nuts. The leaves were turning gorgeous;
and enough were falling to make it necessary that the householder
search out his broad rake. In the country the shocks of corn stood in
rows like so many Indian chiefs wrapped each in his blanket, his plumes
waving above. The night was weird with the notes of birds migrating.
To each of these things Bobby, like every other boy in town, gave his
attention. Apples and grapes there were everywhere in abundance. The
early pioneer planted always his orchard and his arbours. The town,
taking root on the old riverside farms, preserved, as far as it could,
the fruit-trees. Every one who had a yard of any size about his house,
possessed also an apple tree or so and a grape vine--sometimes a chance
peach or pear. Bobby could not go amiss for fresh fruit; but he liked
best of all the sweet little red "Delawares" that grew back of Auntie
Kate's kitchen garden. These he picked, warmed by the sun. The satiny
"Concords" from the trellis, however, were better dipped in cool water,
which, with some labour, he caused to gush sparkling from an
old-fashioned wooden pump. Auntie Kate's apple trees, too, were of
selected varieties. Early in the season were the soft yellow sweetings;
then the streaked red and green "Northern Spies"; and last of all the
snow-apples with their contrast of deep crimson outside and white flesh
within. The windfalls covered the ground ready to the hand; and the
branches bent under their burden. It was the season of apple-sauce with
cinnamon, and baked apples with a dab of jelly where the core ought to
be, and apple-tapioca and Brown Betty. And these tasted wondrous good,
even to youngsters already gorged with raw fruit.
In every front yard and along every street front the householders were
busy raking the crisp autumn leaves into great heaps and long piles.
Bobby and his friends liked solemnly to "swish" their little legs
through them; to roll in them; to hide beneath them by burrowing like so
many squirrels. If this was the season of fruit, it was also the season
of bonfires. Every one burned leaves in those days, blissfully
unconscious of future city ordinances. A thin sweet haze of smoke hung
constantly in the air mellowing the blue of the sky, softening the
outlines of the hills, aromatic as an incensed cathedral. In the
evenings the fires winked bravely on both sides the streets. Figures
with rakes were silhouetted against them. Smaller figures careered
wildly in and out the dense smoke. It was a great "dare" to run and jump
directly through the fire! Now the sun was getting lazy; and sometimes
Bobby was allowed the indulgence of a half-hour of this delicious wild
fun. He always came in smoky and overheated; and always Mrs. Orde vowed
that it should not happen again.... it did.
Then there were the hickory nuts to be gathered in pails and sacks and
spread out on the garret floor to cure. Unfortunately the hickory tree
was very tall, so the boys had patiently to await the pleasure of the
wind. Walnuts and butternuts, on the contrary, were to be knocked down
with well-aimed clubs; hazelnuts to be stripped from the bushes; and
beech-nuts to be shaken down by a bold and practised climber. And in the
woods the squirrels were busy laying away their winter stores.
Mr. Kincaid and Bobby were often afield on the beech ridges. Mr. Kincaid
carried his gun, but he did not use it. They looked for squirrels. The
woods were carpeted with dead leaves on which the sun lay golden. They
had to move very quietly and keep a very sharp lookout. When the game
was sighted, the matter was by no means resolved. Squirrels are lively
people, and expert at hiding. Bobby and Mr. Kincaid chased hard and
breathlessly to force their quarry up a tree. When that was
accomplished, it was by no means easy to get a shot. The squirrel leaped
from one tree to another as fast as his enemies below could run. Finally
he climbed to the top of a tall beech whose trunk he immediately put
between himself and the hunters. It became necessary first to see him,
second to get a shot at him, third to hit him, and last to bring him
down. Bobby, shooting the heavy barrelled Flobert at unaccustomed
ranges, and at an elusive mark, discovered the appetite of atmosphere
for lead. Nevertheless it was the most exciting, breathless, tingling
game he had ever played. The air was biting cold, especially after the
sun began to sink through the trees, but it had the effect merely of
nipping Bobby's nose and cheeks red--his little body was tingling and
aglow. On his banner day he brought down two fox-squirrels, and one of
the beautiful black squirrels, then not uncommon, but now practically
extinct. In the process he used up his box of cartridges.
XI
THE MARSHES
"Real fall weather," that season of 1879, seemed to delay long beyond
the appointed time. During each night, to be sure, it grew cold. The
leaves, after their blaze and riot of colour, turned crisp and crackly
and brown. Some of the little still puddles were filmed with what was
almost, but not quite, ice. A sheen of frost whitened the house-roofs
and silvered each separate blade of grass on the lawns. But by noon the
sun, rising red in the veil of smoke that hung low in the snappy air,
had mellowed the atmosphere until it lay on the cheek like a caress. No
breath of air stirred. Sounds came clearly from a distance. Long
V-shaped flights of geese swept athwart the sky very high up, but their
honking carried faintly to the ear. Time seemed to have run down. And
yet when the sun, swollen to the great dimensions of the rising moon,
dipped blood-red through the haze, the first faint premonitory tingle
of cold warned one that the tepid, grateful warmth of the day had been
but an illusion of a season that had gone. This was not summer; but, in
the quaint old phrase, Indian summer. And its end would be as though the
necromancer had waved his wand.
In the meantime the barges and schooners continued to take chances in
order to market the last of the year's lumber crop; the small boys and
squirrels made the most of the nut crop; the grouse remained scattered
in noisy cover; and the ducks frequented the open stretches where they
were quite out of reach.
But at last Bobby Orde, awakening early, heard the rising and falling
moan of wind past the eaves' corner outside his windows. He hopped out
of bed, thrust his feet into a pair of knit socks and ran to the window.
The sun was not yet up; but the wild barbaric gold of it was flung
abroad over flat, hard-looking clouds.
_"'Bright sunrise at morning,
The sailor takes warning,'"_
murmured Bobby.
In the yard below, the brown leaves were chasing themselves madly around
and about, back and forth, like restless spirits. Others slanted down
from the trees in continuous flocks. The maples tossed restlessly. In
the air was a deep bitter chill which sent Bobby scurrying back to his
warm nest in a hurry.
After breakfast he was glad of his heavier suit. The sun rose and shone,
it is true; but its rays possessed no warmth. The light of it appeared
to be a cold silver, like the sheen on stubble. All the landscape seemed
to have paled. Gone were the rich glowing reds, the warm browns. A gray
cast hung over the land.
From school Bobby hurried home to be in time for an early lunch as Mr.
Orde wanted to go up river. He found Bucephalus in front; and Mr.
Kincaid about to sit down to the lunch table. The latter had on his old
gray suit and cardigan jacket.
"Hullo, youngster!" he greeted Bobby, "Looks like pretty good weather
for ducks. Want to go for a shoot?"
That settled lunch for Bobby. He could hardly stay at table until the
others had finished; and heard with enraptured joy his mother's voice,
as she rose from the table, asking Mr. Kincaid about provisions.
"I have all that," replied Mr. Kincaid, "and there's lots of bedding and
such things."
Nevertheless Mrs. Orde slipped away after a moment to wrap up a loaf of
"salt-rising bread," and one of "dutch bread." The two-wheeled cart
Bobby found, when finally he and Mr. Kincaid emerged from the house
carrying his valise, to be well packed with the shell-box, gun, bag and
a lunch basket. Mr. Kincaid's duck-dog, named Curly, lay crouched in the
bottom like a soft warm mat. Bobby had met Curly before. He was a
comical seal-brown dog, covered with compact tight curls all over his
body. When Bobby petted him, they felt springy. His face, head and ears,
however, were smooth and silky. He had yellow eyes, and an engaging
disposition. To the touch his body, even through the tight curls, felt
unusually warm. Though Curly's tail was a mere stump he wagged it
energetically when his master appeared, but without raising his nose
from between his forepaws.
Duke pranced out, eager to go, but was called back by Mrs. Orde and
ignominiously held. Bucephalus got under way. Bobby hugged the cold
barrel of his little rifle between his knees. He had on his "pull-down"
cap, and his shortest and heaviest cloth over-jacket, and knit woollen
mittens. The actual temperature was not as yet very low, but the wind
from the Lake was abroad, and growing in strength every minute. From the
flag-pole of the Ottawa they could see the square red storm-flag with
the black centre standing out like a piece of tin.
Bucephalus made surprising time. His gait on the open road was a long
awkward shamble, but it seemed to cover the ground. Mr. Kincaid humped
his shoulders and drove in a sociable silence, his short pipe empty
between his teeth. Curly retained his flattened attitude on the bottom
of the cart; only occasionally rolling up his yellow eyes, but without
moving his head. The wind tore by them madly.
About half a mile beyond the last mill Mr. Kincaid left the main road to
turn sharp to the right directly across the broad marshes. Here a
makeshift road had been constructed of poles laid in the corduroy
fashion. The cart pitched and bounced along at a foot pace. Bobby had no
chance to look about him, and could see only that on both sides
stretched the wide cat-tails and rush flats; that near them was water.
The sun was setting cold and black in hard greasy-looking clouds.
By and by the cart gave one last bump and rose to a little dry knoll
like an island in the marshes. Bobby saw that on it grew two elm trees,
beneath which stood a rough shed. Beyond a fringe of bushes he could
make out the roof of another small structure. Mr. Kincaid stopped at the
shed, and began to unharness Bucephalus. Bobby descended very stiffly.
Curly hopped out and expressed delight over his arrival by wagging
himself from the fifth rib back. You see he had not tail enough for the
job, so he had to wag part of his body too. In a moment or so Bucephalus
was tied in the shed and supplied with oats from a bag.
"Well, we're here," said Mr. Kincaid, picking up one of the valises and
the lunch basket. "Bobby, you carry the guns."
He led the way through the bushes to the other structure.
It was a cabin of boards, long and narrow, about the size and shape of a
freight car. The upper end of it rested on dry land, but the lower end
gave out on a floating platform. A single window in the side and a stove
pipe through the roof completed the external features.
"Door's around in front," explained Mr. Kincaid.
They descended to the float. The door was fastened by a padlock. When
it was opened Bobby saw at first nothing but blackness and the flat
board prow of a duck-boat that seemed to occupy all available space. Mr.
Kincaid, however, lifted this bodily to the float, and, entering, drew
aside the curtain to the little window.
Bobby stood in the middle of the floor and gazed about him with
unbounded delight. The place contained two bunks, one over the other, a
small round iron stove, a shelf table against one wall, and two folding
stools. From nails hung a frying pan, a coffee pot, and two kettles.
Shelves supported a number of cans, while two or three small bags
depended from the ceiling. Those were its main furnishings. But beneath
the bunks and piled in one corner were many painted wooden ducks. Around
the neck of each was wound a long white cord to the end of which was
attached a leaden iron weight; in the bunks themselves lay powder
canisters, shotbags, wad-boxes. At one end of the table was fastened a
crimper and a loading block. Several old pipes lay about. Burned matches
strewed the floor.
"Well, here we are, Bobby," repeated Mr. Kincaid, dropping the valises
in the corner, "and it's pretty near sunset; so I guess we'll organize
our boat first, while it's daylight."
He descended to the float.
"Now, you hand me down the decoys," said he.
Bobby passed out the wooden ducks two by two, and Mr. Kincaid stowed
them carefully amidships. They were of many sorts and sizes, and Mr.
Kincaid named them to Bobby as he received them.
"These are the boys!" said he. "Good old green-heads, Worth all the
other ducks put together. Their celery-fed canvasbacks may be
better--never had a chance to try them--but the canvasback in this
country can't touch the mallards. And here, these are blue-bill. They
come to a decoy almost too easy. This is a teal--fly like thunder and
are about as big as a grasshopper. We'll make our flock mostly of these.
Those widgeon, there, wouldn't do us much good. Might put in a few
sprig. They're a handsome duck, Bobby; but the most beautiful thing in
feathers is the wood-duck. Probably won't get any of them to-morrow,
though."
Bobby worked eagerly. Soon he was in a warm glow, the cold wind
forgotten, his cheeks like snow-apples, his eyes like stars.
"That's just a hundred," counted Mr. Kincaid, "and its a humming good
boat load. It'll do. Now you take this demijohn and fill it from the
spring-hole you'll find back of the house, and I'll get the shell-box."
The equipment was finally completed by two wooden shell-boxes to sit on,
a short broad paddle and a long punting pole.
By now the sun had dipped below the horizon leaving nothing of its glory
in the low-hung, hard clouds. All the world seemed clad in velvet-gray,
with dark soft shadows. A gleam of light reflected from water as it
showed in patches here and there. It matched and continued the pale
green light of the heavens, as though the sky had flowed down and
through the blackness of the marshes. The wind came now in heavy gusts,
succeeded by intervals of comparative calm. During these intervals could
be heard the cries of innumerable wildfowl.
Bobby stood at the end of the float, absolutely motionless, taking it
in. His intellectual faculties were as though non-existent. All the
sensitiveness of his nature, like the sensitiveness of a photographic
plate, was exposed to that which took place before him. No little
detail of the scene would he ever forget; and nothing of what its
vastness and mystery and turmoil signified in the world of further
meanings would be lost to him, though for many years he would not
understand them.
But now, as the darkness of the shadows deepened, and the light of water
and sky took on a deeper lucence before being extinguished, for the
first time the sense of pain and the incompleteness of beautiful things
entered his heart. The thing was wonderful; but it hurt. The sight of it
filled him to the lips with a passion of uplift; and yet something
lacked. And the lack of that something was a pain.
Bobby had forgotten that he was cold, that he was alone, that he had
come on an exciting and novel expedition. Mr. Kincaid had disappeared
within the cabin.
A whistle of wings rushed in on the boy's consciousness with startling
suddenness. Across the face of the evening indeterminate, dark bodies
darted low. A prolonged swish of water sounded, and the placid faint
light on the lagoon fifty yards away was broken and troubled. For a
moment it shimmered, and was still. Absolute darkness seemed abruptly
to descend on all the world. From the blackness Bobby heard the low
conversational sounds of ducks newly alit.
"_Ca-chuck!_" said they "_ca-tu-kuk!_" and then an old drake lifted up
his voice.
"_Mark!_" said he. "_Mark-quok, quok, quok!_"
"Oh, Mr. Kincaid!" whispered Bobby sneaking quietly through the door.
"There's a great big flock of ducks lit just outside."
"That so?" queried Mr. Kincaid cheerfully in his natural voice, "Well,
we'll get after 'em in the morning. Don't you want any supper?"
Mr. Kincaid had a fire going in the little round stove. The light that
leaked from it wavered and flickered over the bunks and the table
shelves, and the diminished pile of decoys. Curly was asleep in the
corner. Every few moments Mr. Kincaid removed the frying pan from the
top of the stove, and turned over its contents with a fork. At such
times the light flared up brilliantly, illuminating the whole upper part
of the cabin. A lively sizzling arose from the frying pan; and a
delicious smell filled the air. Bobby made out a tea-kettle at the back,
and the phantom of light steam issuing from its spout.
In a little while Mr. Kincaid straightened up and with a clatter slid
an iron stove cover over the opening. He lit a candle, stuck it in the
mouth of a bottle, and moved down on the table shelf carrying the frying
pan. Bobby then saw that the table shelf had been set with two-heavy
plates, cutlery, and two granite-ware cups. The salt-rising bread and
dutch bread were laid out with a knife beside them. A saucer contained a
pat of butter; a bottle, milk; and a plate was heaped with doughnuts.
"Supper's ready," announced Mr. Kincaid cheerfully. "Sit up, Bobby."
The frying pan proved to contain two generous slices of ham; and four
eggs fried crisp.
"What's the matter with this for a feast?" cried Mr. Kincaid; "sail in!"
The man and the boy ate, the flickering light between them. Outside
howled the wind. Curly slumbered peacefully in the corner.
"This," proffered Mr. Kincaid after an interval, as he reached toward
the basket, "is what my grandfather used to call a 'good competent pie.'
Like pie, Bobby?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby, "but I mustn't eat the under crust."
"Right you are. Well, there's somebody here who'll eat it for you."
"Do you want it?" asked Bobby, wondering.
Mr. Kincaid laughed. "No, I mean Curly," he explained.
"Will Curly eat pie?" marvelled Bobby.
"Curly," said Mr. Kincaid impressively, "will eat anything you can throw
down a hole."
It was a good pie, with lots of room between the crusts, and cinnamon on
the apples, and sugar and nutmeg on top. When finally Mr. Kincaid pushed
back his stool, Curly gravely arose and came forward to get his share of
whatever had not been eaten.
"Now, dishes!" said Mr. Kincaid. "Will you wash or wipe, Bobby?"
"My, I'm full!" said Bobby in the way of indirect expostulation against
immediate activity.
"The time to wash dishes is right away," said Mr. Kincaid briskly. "They
wash easier; and when they're done you have a comfortable feeling that
there's nothing more to be done--and a clear conscience. Did you ever
wash dishes?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it's time you learned. Come on."
Bobby learned how to manipulate hot water, soap, and a dish-rag. Also
how difficult it is to remove some sorts of grease.
"Condemned!" pronounced Mr. Kincaid severely, returning him the frying
pan.
But when the simple task was done, Bobby felt an unusual glow of
competence and experience. He was really "camping out." A new ambition
to learn came to him, an ambition to do his share and to understand
other people's share. Naturally his mind turned first to accustomed
things.
"Where's the wood pile?" he asked Mr. Kincaid. "Can't I fill the
wood-box?"
"It's just behind the house," approved Mr. Kincaid.
Bobby turned the wooden "button" that fastened the door from the inside.
At once it was snatched from his hand and flung open. A burst of wind
rioted in, extinguished the candle, flared up the fire in the stove, and
hurled a loose paper against the roof.
"Whew!" cried Mr. Kincaid, coming to Bobby's assistance; "she's blowing
_some_! When you come back, just kick on the door, and I'll open it for
you."
[Illustration: "CONDEMNED!" PRONOUNCED MR. KINCAID SEVERELY, RETURNING
HIM THE FRYING-PAN]
Bobby stood still a moment until his eyes should expand to the darkness.
He heard the repeated and rapid _swish, swish, swish_, of wavelets
driven against the float, which rose and fell gently beneath his
feet. A roar of wind filled the night. Occasionally it lulled. Then
quite distinctly he could make out a faint grumbling diapason which he
knew to be the surges beating against the distant coast.
The armful of wood he brought in was not very large, but Mr. Kincaid
pronounced it enough.
"And now, youngster," said he, "you'd better turn in. We're going to get
up very early in the morning."
For as long as five minutes Bobby lay awake between the soft woollen
blankets. This was his first experience without sheets. Mr. Kincaid had
blown out the candle and was sitting back smoking a last pipe. Light
from the dying fire in the stove threw his shadow gigantic behind him.
As the flames rose or died this shadow advanced or receded, leaped or
fell, swelled or diminished; and all the other shadows did likewise. In
the entire room Mr. Kincaid's figure was the only motionless object.
Soon Bobby's vision blurred. The dancing shadows became unreal, changed
to dream creatures. Twice a realization, a delicious, poignant
realization of the morrow brought him back to consciousness; and the
dream creatures to the shadows. Then finally he drifted away with only
the feeling of something pleasant about to happen, lying as a background
to sleep.
He awoke in what seemed to him the middle of the night after an
absolutely _black_ sleep. His first thought was that the broad of his
back was shivering; his next that the tip of his nose was marvellous
cold; his last that he was curled all up in a ball like a furry raccoon.
Then he heard the scratch of a match. A light immediately flickered. In
two minutes the little stove was roaring and Mr. Kincaid was exhorting
him to arise.
"Come on, now!" he called. "Duck time!"
Bobby dressed in his thickest winter clothes, which he had brought for
the occasion. When, after breakfast, he put on his reefer and over that
the canvas coat, he looked and felt like a cocoon.
"That's all right," Mr. Kincaid reassured him. "It's going to be cold,
and you'll be mighty glad of them."
They stepped out on the float, and Mr. Kincaid thrust the duck-boat into
the water.