for other reasons. I sat there in the dark, petting the good dog, and
watching the sky grow pale in the east. This is not to mention the
desire for breakfast, or the damp, or the sleepiness, but this is really
the larger part of duck-hunting. Of course if I later had a dozen good
shots it might compensate--but I did not have a dozen shots.

The day came slowly out of the east, the mud-hens out in the marsh
splashed about in the rushes, a sailing hawk was visible against the
gray sky overhead, and I felt rather insignificant, not to say
contemptible, as I sat there in the loneliness of this big nature which
worked around me. The dog dignified the situation--he was a part of
nature's belongings--while I somehow did not seem to grace the solitude.
The grays slowly grew into browns on the sedge-grass, and the water to
silver. A bright flash of fire shot out of the dusk far up in the gloom,
and the dull report of a shot-gun came over the tank. Black objects fled
across the sky--the ducks were flying. I missed one or two, and grew
weary--none came near enough to my lair. Presently it was light, and I
got a fair shot. My bird tumbled into the rushes out in front of me, and
the setter bounded in to retrieve. He searched vehemently, but the
wounded duck dived in front of him. He came ashore shortly, and lying
down, he bit at himself and pawed and rolled. He was a mass of
cockle-burs. I took him on my lap and laboriously picked cockle-burs out
of his hair for a half-hour; then, shouldering my gun, I turned
tragically to the water and anathematized its ducks--all ducks, my
fellow-duckers, all thoughts and motives concerning ducks--and then
strode into the chaparral. "Hie on! hie on!" I tossed my arm, and the
setter began to hunt beautifully--glad, no doubt, to leave all thoughts
of the cockle-burs and evasive ducks behind. I worked up the shore of
the tank, keeping back in the brush, and got some fun. After chasing
about for some time I came out near the water. My dog pointed. I glided