Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 9

George P. Goff

stood looking curiously on, just as those canine friends of man so often
do. The misguided animal went howling away, and had to be captured
and the hook extracted.
[Illustration: A QUEER FISH.]
He felt sure he could do it, however, and he tried it again, with as much
preparation as before, and twice the determination; he missed the sea
altogether, and the barbed instrument buried itself into that portion of
male wearing apparel that comes in contact with the chair, when one
indulges in that agreeable and refreshing posture of sitting down: they
will need repairing.
Paullo is a good shot--with a knife and fork--and can look on at others
who are doing hard work, with more nerve and complacency than any
man who visits the Sound. 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
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