Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 9

He had been persuaded to go to a certain pond where ducks were abundant and easy to shoot. This was good; he put his decoys out and waited. A bird was coming down--it went among the stool. It was a beautiful specimen of the feathered tribe, with a bill like a crow. In some places it is known as a crow duck, but the proper local name here is "blue-peter." Blue-peter seemed to have no fear, but sported around and among the dummies, and tossed the bright drops of water from its shining plumage. With the true feelings of a sportsman, Paullo wanted the bird to have a fair chance, and so tossed bunches of marsh grass at it--it would not fly. Picking up his gun he fired, wounding several decoys.
[Illustration: BATTLE WITH BLUE-PETER.]
The battle raged all that day and the next, blue-peter diving at the flash of the gun, and defiantly coming up and wailing for it to be reloaded.
[Illustration: STRUCK IT WITH A CLUB.]
[Illustration: THE CONQUEROR.]
On the morning of the third day, our Nimrod was late. When he arrived, the duck was there patiently waiting to renew the fight, and was busily engaged picking the shot from the bottom of the pond, tossing it up and catching it in its bill as it came down. With such a gunner and such game, this might last a week. Strategy was resorted to, and when blue-peter went under at the flash, our hero waded out and struck it with a club as it came to the surface. The victory was not to the duck. Late that evening Steve and Jacob were seen carrying from the landing to the house the dead B. P., strung by the neck to the centre of a ten-foot pole, one pall-bearer at each end, and the conqueror leading the procession. On his arrival he was greeted by his fellow members with that distinguished consideration which our people so freely accord to actors of great deeds.
We remained on the beach four weeks, and had many pleasant days. We have now returned to our respective homes, wearied in body but refreshed in mind, well pleased with our trip, with each other, and with a decided inclination for a repetition of the jaunt.
[Illustration: JOE CREED.]
We cannot leave the subject without paying tribute to our friend and companion, Joe Creed. Joe is a large resolute dog of an amiable disposition, a dirty yellow coat, and a small bright eye of the same color. He has a keen sense of duty, but never leaves the blind until he sees the game falling, when he proceeds to bring it in. He was undoubtedly born for it. If two birds fall, with almost human intelligence he gets both. Taking the farthest first, stopping on his way in to pick up the other, he comes in with one swinging on each side of his great shaggy head. They tell of him that he has been caught stealing sheep. We do not believe it--it is a mistake; he may have been in bad company, that is all. Joe was the property of a gentleman on Long Island, and we trusted his exploits in the North might vie with his achievements in the South.
"When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been; But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend; Whose heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonored falls."
But Joe came to an untimely end; he was found shot to death. The following was placed over his grave:
"Near this spot Are deposited the remains of one Who possessed beauty without vanity, Strength without insolence, Courage without ferocity, And all the virtues of man without his vices."
Born in North Carolina, March, 1875. Died at Jamaica, Long Island, March, 1876.
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THE HAUNTED ISLAND.
"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old, But something ails it now; the place is curst."
Far up the Potomac, in the shadow of the mountains, among the hundreds of small islands which dot the river in that picturesque region, is one which has the reputation of being haunted. It is but a few miles above the ferry at the Point of Rocks, and is unknown to the thousands of persons who are whirled past there every year in the railroad trains.
This island is about fifty acres in extent, and is bordered with stately oaks to the very river's edge--whose waters lave their roots; its margin is paved with pearly pebbles, while the drooping