LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 364, 12 August 1875, Page 3

LOAFER IN THE STREET.

(From the Press). What sportsman says Übique in his pleasant book “ Accessible Field Sports” is there who does not take pleasure in bagging a duck? Not one, I maintain. Many and many a one have I bagged from a henroost, and many a one have I missed with the tubes which in the hands of some people are so deadly, but in mine are usually as innocuous as Holloway’s ointment. I have been out though gunning lately, and those ducks did suffer, I mean to tell you about it, because many of your readers like sport. I know two of them who last year made as clever a stalk of six Muscovy ducks near the Carlton hotel as ever I saw, and getting within twenty yards, brought one to bag with four barrels, Such things show that although we live in New Zealand, the same manly love for Anglo-Saxon sports animates our bosoms that beats beneath the breast of the British sportsman when he sets his night lines in his neighbour’s pond or traps the wily hare and pheasant by means of the crafty springe. No one who can’t appreciate good sport need read this communication. I went up to Mr Goodwin’s on this occasion. I went with Tibbs and another party from the North. Tibbs has been shy of shooting with me lately. It appears by some extraordinary means that when gunning with him my fowling piece is always pointed at his head, I’m surprised at a man like Tibbs taking on about a thing like this, particularly when I have only put one charge of shot through his hat all the time I’ve been shooting with him. We left per 4.30 train from Christchurch, and, travelling at that lightning pace for which, it is needless to say, the narrow gauge is so justly famous, duly arrived at Lincoln, Mr Goodwin met us at

the station, and stowing our guns and things in the trap, we bowled off for the homestead, where we arrived in g oil time. We sat up over the calumet and Islay talking shooting, breechloaders, and dogs. |The party from the north told more good anecdotes on all sorts of subjects than I could well remember. Here is one, not however connected with sport. A fellow in Victoria had just been made a LP. It so happened that shortly after his appointment it fell out one morning that all the rest of the magistrates were away, The inspector of police went down to Paddy (it doesn’t matter what his other name was), and told him he must come down to adjudicate. Paddy didn’t like it. In spite of the inspector’s assurance that there was only one drunk and disorderly on the sheet, it required all the inspector’s powers of persuasion to induce him to come. Once on the Bench, however, Paddv made the most of his innings, he lectured the drunk and disorderly being on the evils of intemperance, on the trouble he was bringing ©n his wife and family, and concluded a brilliant judicial peroration with these remarkable words —“ The sentence of the Court is that you be taken from here to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and then fined five shillings, or in default twenty-four hours’ imprisonment, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.” We sat up pretty late, so late indeed that when we turned out by candle light at 3,30 I felt more or less sleepy. There are times when one scarcely agrees with Sancho Panza’s ideas about sleep. This was one of those times. We all don waterproof trousers Mine, which I wear for the first time, are say 2 feet too big in the girth. This is embarrassing, because —well, for many reasons. When equipped in waterproof a fellow looks a cross between a Brighton bathing man and a stage villain. It’s a becoming costume. We then start by moonlight in a hard frost, and have five miles to drive to the shooting ground. I eat cake, sleep in spells of two minutes, get punched at intervals by Tibb’s, and also get that near frostbitten that there is “no fun in it.” I like duck shooting, though. It has been arranged that Mr Goodwin and myself are to shoot together, Tibbs and the Northern gunnist going some two miles further down. By this means we hope to keep the birds moving. Tibbs and mate disappear in the faint moonlight, and Mr Goodwin announces his intention of moving ncross to a spit somewhere in the middle of the Lake. I yield at once, because Mr Goodwin probably knows more of the Lake and the ways and habitats of the wily duck than any other man in Canterbury. We heap cartridges, luncheon, and decoys into bags, and walk, say four miles (I’ll allow a little discount off the distance, but when Goodwin talks about it being only half a mile, it’s an infamous falsehood) through water up to our knees, carrying about Isolbs each. I never felt so much like a camel in my life. I hope I never shall again. The ship of the desert is an overrated institution. What a day we’re having I thought, and just as daylight was breaking, we landed on the spit. We pull out our decoys, ducks made of India rubber, and set them out in the most attractive manner possible. One of them is about the most intoxicated looking graven image of a bird I ever saw. Owing to some slight mistake made by a former gunner, this unfortunate decoy had received a wound in his breast between wind and water, and he hourly got more and more bulgy. He wouldn’t have decoyed the shortest sighted duck that ever swam. We lie down together on the ribbed sand. We lie on bags, but as the ribbed sand is as wet as a sponge, we become in a few minutes sweetly moist. Tobacco, matches, sandwiches, and cheese, have all got mixed up, but as they are equally damp it don’t so much matter. Two or three flights of spoonbills pass about half a mile over our heads. Of course I fire at them, and get a stern rebuke from Goodwin. Three grey ducks come by and swoop at the decoys. Goodwin takes two of them well right and left. I came very near getting the third, but having forgotten to put my gun on full cock I didn’t fire until too late. Had that gun gone off on the first offer we should have had the three, Goodwin thought so too. He assures me that duck was as good as dead when I put my gun up. Another duck comes by, Goodwin drops him. The r duck, however, concludes to fly as long as possible, and falls about half a mile off in the lake. I pursue that duck, _ He has only a broken wing, and can swim like a fish. I wade after him, say a mile, and ran him to earth. Retrieving in waterproofs is great fun when you’ve no, dog. I fancy perhaps it’s best to have a dog. My experiences point to that conclusion. I come back just about licked, but what a day we’re having. As the day goes on, we kill an -occasional duck, at least Goodwin does. I don’t, but come awful near it. The number of narrow escapes some ducks had that day would surprise you, and the feathers I knocked out; why, there were at least three pillows and a mattrass floating before us on the glassy waters of the lake. I didn’t kill much though. At last I said “ Goodwin, this gun is too heavy on the trigger for me, let’s have a shoot with yours.” He handed me his, and just then a grey duck lit within fifteen yards of us. Slowly raising the gun, I got trying to cover that bird, and would have done so, too, but just as I had got within half a foot of him the gun went off,’ and bulged in the side of one of the decoy’s heads as fair as anything you ever saw. The duck started off on urgent business for Leeston, but Goodwin’s second barrel stopped him, and I had another two mile retrieve. On my waj back two more ducks appeared coraiug up, and Goodwin telegraphed to me to crouch. I did so. I crouched in about two and a half feet of water. I felt secure against wet, relying on the waterproofs, but I erred; owing to some mistake in the girthing, the blamed waterproofs had got loose, and the pellucid water of Lake Ellesmere was rushing into them in torrents, and before I got back I learned more about the specific gravity of water than ever I knew before. It was a beautiful day. The lake was like a mirror, the hills close by, the distant snowy mountains, were reflected in the water in a manner quite true to nature, even more so than the psrtrait of the Black Horse on the Lincoln road; but as Max Adder truly observes, it is a strange thing that cold legs should prevent an immortal soul from having felicity. You can’t gush over scenery with two hundredweight of Lake Ellesmere in each waterproof leg. If you think you can "enjoy the fruitiest poetry of a majestic nature in such a case you go and try it. It becomes embarrassing, too, when you have to tilt yourself on your head to let the water run out. It is a position completely devoid of romance. What a day we were having though. It got warm in the middle of the day, and

we could frequently hear the distant and random gun that Tibbs and mate were religiously blazing. I think I shot worse after lunch, and then I said Mr Manning never would fix my cartridges as I wanted him. I mentioned this fact to Manning when I got back, and he said he wasn’t to blame, but he felt sure from my style of shooting that if I confined myself to sitting shots at about ten yards I should make a fair bag if enough ducks came to me. We saw plenty of swans. The Latin grammar statement in reference to this bird is not applicable on the lake. The swan is not a vara avis. They swim there in hundreds. They may sing in an exquisite style before death, but no one has ever heard them at it. I’m a little doubtful about it, because their vocal capabilities when in full vigor are not of a high order. If you can imagine a third-rate amateur bass voice crooning to himself in semitones, and accompanying himself with an oyster shell on a kerosene tin, you may form some idea of the singing of the black swan. His voice lacks crispness, We shot one. We were talking about the abolition of provinces in sepulchral whispers, when Goodwin, for the 700th time, cried “ Down,” and down I went with the back of my head on a demoralised bit of cheese and some wet sand. Two swans came right for us, and we gave them four barrels—one fell hard hit about half a mile out. Now I thought I shall hear this fellow sing, and away I went, Goodwin wouldn’t come too. He is a most extraordinary man. He says he wouldn’t give a brass farthing to hear any dying swan sing. He says he can back his Brahma rooster to chant against any dying swan that ever flapped. I followed that swan miles. I got at last within fifty yards of him. I could see he meant throwing up the sponge. I thought I wouldn’t bustle him, so I waited for about a quarter of an hour. Not a note did he sing, not even a squauk did he put out. It would appear the moribund solo of the swan is a poetic delusion. At dark we picked up ducks, decoys, and remaining ammunition, and returned to the banks of the lake to await the arrival of Tibbs and mate. We waited for an hour and a half; I froze steadily. At last they arrived. We d'ove home, and after tea we counted out. The following is the score: — Goodwin—22 greys, 1 paradise, 1 swan. Tibbs and mate—24 greys, 6 paradise, 1 swan, 1 brace of dotterell, 1 do stilts. The present writer, f of a grey duck. Grand total, 46 greys. 7 paradise, 2 swans, 1 brace dotterell, Ido stilts. What a day we had. This shows what four determined men can do when they set their minds steadily to shooting, even in the face of the most unfavorable weather, and with a lack of dog. In conclusion, I should like to say that duck shooting on the Lake is a noble sport, but it requires practice. You must be able to shoot on your back, on your side, and in every position which might be supposed to be utterly unsuitable for holding straight. If you doubt me, go and try it. I hope to go again with Mr Goodwin next year. In fact, I mean to, and what a day we will have.