[Illustration]
The title will suggest to most boys a line across the autumn sky at
sunset, with a bit of mystery about it; or else a dark triangle moving
southward, high and swift, at Thanksgiving time. To a few, who know
well the woods and fields about their homes, it may suggest a lonely
little pond, with a dark bird rising swiftly, far out of reach,
leaving the ripples playing among the sedges. To those accustomed to
look sharply it will suggest five or six more birds, downy little
fellows, hiding safe among roots and grasses, so still that one seldom
suspects their presence. But the duck, like most game birds, loves
solitude; the details of his life he keeps very closely to himself;
and boys must be content with occasional glimpses.
This is especially true of the dusky duck, more generally known by the
name black duck among hunters. He is indeed a wild duck, so wild that
one must study him with a gun, and study him long before he knows much
about him. An ordinary tramp with a field-glass and eyes wide open
may give a rare, distant view of him; but only as one follows him as a
sportsman winter after winter, meeting with much less of success than
of discouragement, does he pick up many details of his personal life;
for wildness is born in him, and no experience with man is needed to
develop it. On the lonely lakes in the midst of a Canada forest, where
he meets man perhaps for the first time, he is the same as when he
builds at the head of some mill pond within sight of a busy New
England town. Other ducks may in time be tamed and used as decoys; but
not so he. Several times I have tried it with wing-tipped birds; but
the result was always the same. They worked night and day to escape,
refusing all food and even water till they broke through their pen, or
were dying of hunger, when I let them go.
One spring a farmer, with whom I sometimes go shooting, determined to
try with young birds. He found a black duck's nest in a dense swamp
near a salt creek, and hatched the eggs with some others under a tame
duck. Every time he approached the pen the little things skulked away
and hid; nor could they be induced to show themselves, although their
tame companions were feeding and running about, quite contented. After
two weeks, when he thought them somewhat accustomed to their
surroundings, he let the whole brood go down to the shore just below
his house. The moment they were free the wild birds scurried away into
the water-grass out of sight, and no amount of anxious quacking on the
part of the mother duck could bring them back into captivity. He never
saw them again.
This habit which the young birds have of skulking away out of sight is
a measure of protection that they constantly practise. A brood may be
seen on almost any secluded pond or lake in New England, where the
birds come in the early spring to build their nests. Watching from
some hidden spot on the shore, one sees them diving and swimming
about, hunting for food everywhere in the greatest freedom. The next
moment they scatter and disappear so suddenly that one almost rubs his
eyes to make sure that the birds are really gone. If he is near
enough, which is not likely unless he is very careful, he has heard a
low cluck from the old bird, which now sits with neck standing
straight up out of the water, so still as to be easily mistaken for
one of the old stumps or bogs among which they are feeding. She is
looking about to see if the ducklings are all well hidden. After a
moment there is another cluck, very much like the other, and downy
little fellows come bobbing out of the grass, or from close beside the
stumps where you looked a moment before and saw nothing. This is
repeated at frequent intervals, the object being, apparently, to
accustom the young birds to hide instantly when danger approaches.
So watchful is the old bird, however, that trouble rarely threatens
without her knowledge. When the young are well hidden at the first
sign of the enemy, she takes wing and leaves them, returning when
danger is over to find them still crouching motionless in their hiding
places. When surprised she acts like other game birds,--flutters along
with a great splashing, trailing one wing as if wounded, till she has
led you away from the young, or occupied your attention long enough
for them to be safely hidden; then she takes wing and leaves you.
The habit of hiding becomes so fixed with the young birds that they
trust to it long after the wings have grown and they are able to
escape by flight. Sometimes in the early autumn I have run the bow of
my canoe almost over a full-grown bird, lying hidden in a clump of
grass, before he sprang into the air and away. A month later, in the
same place, the canoe could hardly approach within a quarter of a mile
without his taking alarm.
Once they have learned to trust their wings, they give up hiding for
swift flight. But they never forget their early training, and when
wounded hide with a cunning that is remarkable. Unless one has a good
dog it is almost useless to look for a wounded duck, if there is any
cover to be reached. Hiding under a bank, crawling into a muskrat
hole, worming a way under a bunch of dead grass or pile of leaves,
swimming around and around a clump of bushes just out of sight of his
pursuer, diving and coming up behind a tuft of grass,--these are some
of the ways by which I have known a black duck try to escape. Twice I
have heard from old hunters of their finding a bird clinging to a
bunch of grass under water, though I have never seen it. Once, from a
blind, I saw a black duck swim ashore and disappear into a small clump
of berry bushes. Karl, who was with me, ran over to get him, but after
a half-hour's search gave it up. Then I tried, and gave it up also. An
hour later we saw the bird come out of the very place where we had
been searching, and enter the water. Karl ran out, shouting, and the
bird hid in the bushes again. Again we hunted the clump over and over,
but no duck could be seen. We were turning away a second time when
Karl cried: "Look!"--and there, in plain sight, by the very white
stone where I had seen him disappear, was the duck, or rather the red
leg of a duck, sticking out of a tangle of black roots.
With the first sharp frost that threatens to ice over the ponds in
which they have passed the summer, the inland birds betake themselves
to the seacoast, where there is more or less migration all winter.
The great body of ducks moves slowly southward as the winter grows
severe; but if food is plenty they winter all along the coast. It is
then that they may be studied to the best advantage.
During the daytime they are stowed away in quiet little ponds and
hiding places, or resting in large flocks on the shoals well out of
reach of land and danger. When possible, they choose the former,
because it gives them an abundance of fresh water, which is a daily
necessity; and because, unlike the coots which are often found in
great numbers on the same shoals, they dislike tossing about on the
waves for any length of time. But late in the autumn they desert the
ponds and are seldom seen there again until spring, even though the
ponds are open. They are very shy about being frozen in or getting ice
on their feathers, and prefer to get their fresh water at the mouths
of creeks and springs.
With all their caution,--and they are very good weather prophets,
knowing the times of tides and the approach of storms, as well as the
days when fresh water freezes,--they sometimes get caught. Once I
found a flock of five in great distress, frozen into the thin ice
while sleeping, no doubt, with heads tucked under their wings. At
another time I found a single bird floundering about with a big lump
of ice and mud attached to his tail. He had probably found the
insects plentiful in some bit of soft mud at low tide, and stayed
there too long with the thermometer at zero.
Night is their feeding time; on the seacoast they fly in to the
feeding grounds just at dusk. Fog bewilders them, and no bird likes to
fly in rain, because it makes the feathers heavy; so on foggy or rainy
afternoons they come in early, or not at all. The favorite feeding
ground is a salt marsh, with springs and creeks of brackish water.
Seeds, roots, tender grasses, and snails and insects in the mud left
by the low tide are their usual winter food. When these grow scarce
they betake themselves to the mussel beds with the coots; their flesh
in consequence becomes strong and fishy.
When the first birds come in to the feeding grounds before dark, they
do it with the greatest caution, examining not only the little pond or
creek, but the whole neighborhood before lighting. The birds that
follow trust to the inspection of these first comers, and generally
fly straight in. For this reason it is well for one who attempts to
see them at this time to have live decoys and, if possible, to have
his blind built several days in advance, in order that the birds which
may have been feeding in the place shall see no unusual object when
they come in. If the blind be newly built, only the stranger birds
will fly straight in to his decoys. Those that have been there before
will either turn away in alarm, or else examine the blind very
cautiously on all sides. If you know now how to wait and sit perfectly
still, the birds will at last fly directly over the stand to look in.
That is your only chance; and you must take it quickly if you expect
to eat duck for dinner.
By moonlight one may sit on the bank in plain sight of his decoys, and
watch the wild birds as long as he will. It is necessary only to sit
perfectly still. But this is unsatisfactory; you can never see just
what they are doing. Once I had thirty or forty close about me in this
way. A sudden turn of my head, when a bat struck my cheek, sent them
all off in a panic to the open ocean.
A curious thing frequently noticed about these birds as they come in
at night is their power to make their wings noisy or almost silent at
will. Sometimes the rustle is so slight that, unless the air is
perfectly still, it is scarcely audible; at other times it is a strong
_wish-wish_ that can be heard two hundred yards away. The only theory
I can suggest is that it is done as a kind of signal. In the daytime
and on bright evenings one seldom hears it; on dark nights it is very
frequent, and is always answered by the quacking of birds already on
the feeding grounds, probably to guide the incomers. How they do it
is uncertain; it is probably in some such way as the night-hawk makes
his curious booming sound,--not by means of his open mouth, as is
generally supposed, but by slightly turning the wing quills so that
the air sets them vibrating. One can test this, if he will, by blowing
on any stiff feather.
On stormy days the birds, instead of resting on the shoals, light near
some lonely part of the beach and, after watching carefully for an
hour or two, to be sure that no danger is near, swim ashore and
collect in great bunches in some sheltered spot under a bank. It is
indeed a tempting sight to see perhaps a hundred of the splendid birds
gathered close together on the shore, the greater part with heads
tucked under their wings, fast asleep; but if you are to surprise
them, you must turn snake and crawl, and learn patience. Scattered
along the beach on either side are single birds or small bunches
evidently acting as sentinels. The crows and gulls are flying
continually along the tide line after food; and invariably as they
pass over one of these bunches of ducks they rise in the air to look
around over all the bank. You must be well hidden to escape those
bright eyes. The ducks understand crow and gull talk perfectly, and
trust largely to these friendly sentinels. The gulls scream and the
crows caw all day long, and not a duck takes his head from under his
wing; but the instant either crow or gull utters his danger note every
duck is in the air and headed straight off shore.
The constant watchfulness of black ducks is perhaps the most
remarkable thing about them. When feeding at night in some lonely
marsh, or hidden away by day deep in the heart of the swamps, they
never for a moment seem to lay aside their alertness, nor trust to
their hiding places alone for protection. Even when lying fast asleep
among the grasses with heads tucked under their wings, there is a
nervous vigilance in their very attitudes which suggests a sense of
danger. Generally one has to content himself with studying them
through a glass; but once I had a very good opportunity of watching
them close at hand, of outwitting them, as it were, at their own game
of hide-and-seek. It was in a grassy little pond, shut in by high
hills, on the open moors of Nantucket. The pond was in the middle of a
plain, perhaps a hundred yards from the nearest hill. No tree or rock
or bush offered any concealment to an enemy; the ducks could sleep
there as sure of detecting the approach of danger as if on the open
ocean.
One autumn day I passed the place and, looking cautiously over the top
of a hill, saw a single black duck swim out of the water-grass at the
edge of the pond. The fresh breeze in my face induced me to try to
creep down close to the edge of the pond, to see if it were possible
to surprise birds there, should I find any on my next hunting trip.
Just below me, at the foot of the hill, was a swampy run leading
toward the pond, with grass nearly a foot high growing along its edge.
I must reach that if possible.
After a few minutes of watching, the duck went into the grass again,
and I started to creep down the hill, keeping my eyes intently on the
pond. Halfway down, another duck appeared, and I dropped flat on the
hillside in plain sight. Of course the duck noticed the unusual
object. There was a commotion in the grass; heads came up here and
there. The next moment, to my great astonishment, fully fifty black
ducks were swimming about in the greatest uneasiness.
I lay very still and watched. Five minutes passed; then quite suddenly
all motion ceased in the pond; every duck sat with neck standing
straight up from the water, looking directly at me. So still were they
that one could easily have mistaken them for stumps or peat bogs.
After a few minutes of this kind of watching they seemed satisfied,
and glided back, a few at a time, into the grass.
When all were gone I rolled down the hill and gained the run, getting
soaking wet as I splashed into it. Then it was easier to advance
without being discovered; for whenever a duck came out to look
round--which happened almost every minute at first--I could drop into
the grass and be out of sight.
In half an hour I had gained the edge of a low bank, well covered by
coarse water-grass. Carefully pushing this aside, I looked through,
and almost held my breath, they were so near. Just below me, within
six feet, was a big drake, with head drawn down so close to his body
that I wondered what he had done with his neck. His eyes were closed;
he was fast asleep. In front of him were eight or ten more ducks close
together, all with heads under their wings. Scattered about in the
grass everywhere were small groups, sleeping, or pluming their glossy
dark feathers.
Beside the pleasure of watching them, the first black ducks that I had
ever seen unconscious, there was the satisfaction of thinking how
completely they had been outwitted at their own game of sharp
watching. How they would have jumped had they only known what was
lying there in the grass so near their hiding place! At first, every
time I saw a pair of little black eyes wink, or a head come from under
a wing, I felt myself shrinking close together in the thought that I
was discovered; but that wore off after a time, when I found that the
eyes winked rather sleepily, and the necks were taken out just to
stretch them, much as one would take a comfortable yawn.
[Illustration]
Once I was caught squarely, but the grass and my being so near saved
me. I had raised my head and lay with chin in my hands, deeply
interested in watching a young duck making a most elaborate toilet,
when from the other side an old bird shot suddenly into the open water
and saw me as I dropped out of sight. There was a low, sharp quack
which brought every duck out of his hiding, wide awake on the instant.
At first they all bunched together at the farther side, looking
straight at the bank where I lay. Probably they saw my feet, which
were outside the covert as I lay full length. Then they drew gradually
nearer till they were again within the fringe of water-grass. Some of
them sat quite up on their tails by a vigorous use of their wings, and
stretched their necks to look over the low bank. Just keeping still
saved me. In five minutes they were quiet again; even the young duck
seemed to have forgotten her vanity and gone to sleep with the others.
Two or three hours I lay thus and watched them through the grass,
spying very rudely, no doubt, into the seclusion of their home life.
As the long shadow of the western hill stretched across the pool till
it darkened the eastern bank, the ducks awoke one by one from their
nap, and began to stir about in preparation for departure. Soon they
were collected at the center of the open water, where they sat for a
moment very still, heads up, and ready. If there was any signal given
I did not hear it. At the same moment each pair of wings struck the
water with a sharp splash, and they shot straight up in that
remarkable way of theirs, as if thrown by a strong spring. An instant
they seemed to hang motionless in the air high above the water, then
they turned and disappeared swiftly over the eastern hill toward the
marshes.