The Frustrations of a Scatter-Gunner

Childhood remembrances of learning to hunt at Pike Lake, Hartford, Washington County, Wisconsin in the early 1900s.

Dad's intention was to relate his hunting experiences from youth to late in life.  This is witnessed by his “outline,”… which started with Pike Lake and goes through experiences at Puckaway, Winneconne, Sinnisippi and White Lake at Brainerd, MN and ending with his (and our) beloved Lake House.

As far as I know, his narrative never got beyond the Pike Lake experience, and I shall often wonder whether ambition or just plain time ran out for him…  Before he could complete his story…

Fred Breidster

Seated around a card table in front of a crackling fire at my summer home on Lake Michigan, my two of three lately arrived hunting companions had just "schmeared" me out of what I thought was a darn good Sheepshead hand.

"Frustration," I moaned, passing out the chips.  "I'm the all-American frustration kid.  Why, only this morning, here's what happened--" and I recited the incident in detail.  This incident will be told later in my story.

From the kitchen came the voice of the "tea" mixer -- "Why the heck don't you throw your guns in the drink and write a book on frustration.  Your belly-aching should make good reading and I'll take the first autographed copy."

"I'm second."

"I'm third,” said the other two.

"But also mention some of your successes, to keep your readers from crying all over the pages" said the K.P. setting the cups in front of us.  "Who deals?"

This little "dig" has irked me for a long time and the more I thought about it, the more it brought back to mind the experiences accrued during fifty years of hunting, some good and some bad, which could make a story.

The successes of duck or goose hunting are often considered ordinary or forgotten completely unless something phenomenal had happened.  The what-I-should-have-dones or if I had done this or if I had done that or if I had been in the place I had just left, if I hadn't chosen that moment to light my pipe -- these are the causes of sleepless nights and mental anguish and activating? a conjured up picture of what might have happened.  These, I call "frustrations" and I think most hunters can recall many such occasions.

For the youngsters I can only say -- begin early and with proper supervision and be a real good sportsman always.  It will pay off.  To the oldsters -- I hope they can lay the book aside for a moment, every so often, lean back, close their eyes and say, "Jees, that's just what happened to me."

This is no product of imagination, but facts to the best of my memory.  Names are purposely omitted for fear of embarrassment.  There is one exception, however, for without the education given me by him, my life as a hunter might have been dull.  He was my cousin Leo.

I'm no Corey Ford Ruark, Mel Ellis or Gordon MacQuarrie (God) but here goes:

I was born...

Now that's the master statement of all statements.

Of course I was born or how the heck would I be writing this masterpiece?

I meant to start at the beginning of course, but I didn't mean the beginning to be so early.
So, I'll start at a later beginning.

My grandparents had a farm on Pike Lake.  It was a beautiful farm and a beautiful lake.  The farm had cornfields and grain fields and hay fields, heavily wooded areas, a gravel pit and swamps.  The farm was about three miles from a hamlet, village, town, or city (I don't remember what they called it in those days) named Hartford, Wisconsin.

To the east between the house and the other out buildings was the household garden containing sweet corn, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, beets, pickles, cukes, pumpkins and squash and you name it.  To the west was a staggered split rail line fence almost completely covered by blackberry bushes.

To the south, the roadway (which ended at Gramp's gate) and the field and distant houses of neighboring farmers.

The lake was neither too large nor too small, crystal clear and full of fish.  The east side was a big willow and popple swamp, and full of dead stumps and old windfalls.  The north end was thickly covered with wild rice and weeds and reeds.  The rest was open water except for an occasional shift in bogs.  There were many good gravel and sand beaches for swimming.  The house was large and comfortable setting on a hill overlooking almost the entire lake.  It was surrounded by giant elms and lilac bushes, and peonies and sweet peas were everywhere in season.  To the north, down almost to the lake shore, was an orchard never attended, never sprayed but always productive of the most perfect apples imaginable: Winesaps, duchess, greenings, swan apples and great big juicy Northern spys.  Oh me!

My cousin, Leo, an orphan, lived with Gram and Gramp.  He was a few years older than me and he was a hunter.  At the ripe old age of eight he made me my first slingshot.  I can still see him whipping out his hunting knife, after carefully sloshing around a willow tree and cutting out the perfect Y.  He attached the heavy rubber bands directly to the circled slots on each prong, further securing these with string.  Then, using a very fine cut strip of leather thong looped to the other end of the bands, he attached a piece of an old shoe tongue.  He showed me how to pull, hold level on near objects and raise for arc on objects further away.

From then on I was in business.  I'd go down to the gravel pit and crawl on my hands and knees picking up the roundest, smoothest right sized stone, filling my overall pockets until I had to haul up the spikes on my suspenders.  Believe me, every tree, every fencepost, every anything, including the little house with the half moon (especially if it was occupied) resounded to the impact of a stone.  When I was sent to get the cows, even "Old Bess" would get one in the east end to keep her in line up the lane to the barn.  I wonder what Gramp would say now if he knew what made one of the horses jump while harnessed to the hay rack.  I know what he said then in his Yankee blasphemy: “Whoa there, hold up ye goldarn piece of a glue factory or I’ll stick your hide with a pitchfork!”  Wasn't I a devil?  Weren't you?

And talking about the barn, it was more fun, especially on a rainy day, to sit in the hay mow and occasionally knock off a chirping "spatzie" from one of the rafters or sock a fat rat prowling in the oat bin.  This delighted me no end.

All our visits occurred on weekends or over some holiday.  It was a sad moment for me when I had to hang up my slingshot on a nail in the woodshed (if I could find room - Gramp was a saver) and start back to Milwaukee.  That only meant getting scrubbed up and putting on a blouse, knee pants, long black ribbed stockings (with garters yet!), high button shoes, jacket matching the pants and a beanie cap for another five days.

Many is the time I got a whack across the palm of the hand with a ruler for playing with some newly acquired wide rubber bands instead of listening to my teacher.  The bands were confiscated temporarily but somehow I always got them back.   One day, it occurred to me that if I could save a penny here and there, that good old grinnyackers or even the heavier baked clay marbles would make excellent fodder for my sling.  I managed this somehow and the next time to the farm I was loaded with pellets of equal size.  No gravel pit for me.

I was also loaded with a dozen brand new one half inch by six inch rubber bands which I undoubtedly filched on visits to my father's office.

I was quite adept now at making my own slings.  My eye was always peeled for a perfect crotch and I found them mainly in the willows, lilac bushes, dogwood and young ash trees.  Cutting tongues out of shoes (or grandpa's harness) was a cinch with the aid of my newly acquired folding pocketknife, honed to razor sharpness.  Those marbles really did the trick.  Before long I could drop a sleepy owl out of a tree, scare the heck out of a woodchuck or a gopher sunning before his hole or take the head off a grass snake.

Leo and I would walk down a narrow road and come upon a rabbit setting before his form(?)  He'd say, "We'll make him run."  Sometimes I'd make him run and then again I'd bop him in the head, pick him up, conk him behind the ears, and add him to my belt.  Nice meat-- no holes.  I could knock a mud-turtle off a summing log and once, to my utter amazement and chagrin, I hit a swallow on the wing while she was scooping whatever they scoop over the water.

In the hay loft, my score on sparrows and rats also improved considerably and nothing from cat-birds to pigs was safe around me.

Enough about sling shots though I still love 'em.

I made a couple last summer for my grandson, but he's only five and so I had to use them up.

Lest I forget, another event which took place in this and later eras was the big frog hunt.  On some weekends, my dad's two brothers, their wives and children would also converge on Gramp and Gram.  In the early fall, after the corn and grain and clover were in, it was time for frogging.

Gramp, Leo, two uncles, two cousins, Dad and my brother and I would sally forth with a flour sack slung from the shoulder and a just right willow whip.  We'd spread out abreast for the full width of a stubble field and start beating.  Here a big green frog and there a big bull frog would get to be whopped behind the head to lay paralyzed and to be picked up and thrown into the bag.

A morning of this and we were loaded.

Then the oldsters around the yard table, with a jug of Gramp's elderberry or wild grape wine, some cutting off and some skinning the legs.  Then we kids washed and salted them between pulls on a bottle of home made root beer, I watched them shiver and quake in the bowl.  Then Gram washed them again, rolled them in flour and cracker or bread crumbs and fried them in butter.  Even then, they'd darn near jump out of the frying pan.  Fried potatoes, cole slaw, home made bread and heaping platters of frogs’ legs!  Wow, I'm drooling so now I need a towel.

By the way, I wonder what has become of those frogs.  Here and there in the fields or near some water you can occasionally see some small ones but never the kind we used to get.  I guess they are all on the commercial rearing farms nowadays.  Another fond memory!

Nothing about frustration yet?  Well, stick around, it's coming.

Then next big advent in a youngster's life must be a BB gun and sure enough, when I was about nine and a half, there was good old "Daisy" laying under the Christmas tree.  To heck with anything else!  I just fondled that shiny Daisy and pumped her and pumped her until I had all the gas mantles, sideboard dishes and tree ornaments blasted to smithereens.  Except, of course, that I had no Bee bees.  Papa wasn't so dumb!  Now the long wait 'til time to go to the farm again.

When that time finally arrived, Dad brought home what seemed like a bushel basket of bee bees.  They sold by the pound then.  I remember getting into bed and dumping them on the blanket and pushing my fingers through them.  I think I also started to count them but eventually became convinced that I had enough to last the weekend.

If you think I was slap happy with a sling shot, it's a good thing you weren't around when I had good old "Daisy."  Nothing was sacred!  The cows got it, the horses got it, the pigs, the chickens-  anything that could get it got it.

And certainly the "spatzies" in the hay mow and the rats in the oat bin.  Of course, sometimes I'd have to pump two or three times before a bee bee came out, but all targets were congenial enough to stick around until that happened.

It goes without saying that where I went, old Daisy went along.  During all this rambling, I have neglected to mention how we got to the farm in the first place.

When Dad, my brother and I went alone, we used the buggy and a horse named "Blind Tom."  He actually was blind, which didn't matter, because he could have walked backwards and arrived at the same time.  Imagine having to sit there for five or six hours, getting corns on my beseatus, and thinking about my sling or old Daisy in the wood shed.  Frustration?  I certainly didn't know its spelling or its meaning but that must have been number one!

The only break in the monotony was when Dad would hand me the reins and let me drive.  That was a chore I tell you.  All I had to do was keep that blind nag in the middle of the road.  If another outfit approached us, Dad would grab the reins, pull to the side, and stand still until it had passed.  Then I could have the reins again.

It was only a gesture on Dad's part to make me feel important and so he could relax and enjoy a Fatima cigarette whose tantalizing odor got me to wondering whether Cousin Leo's English Curve Cut would be available or whether I would have to smoke corn silk, dry leaves or coffee grounds.  I had previously been cured for all time on Grandfather's Eight Brothers.

When Mom went along, we took the surrey with the fringe on top and another horse.  I forget his name but he could see and was faster but it still took the same length of time, because even in those days there were back seat drivers.  When Dad would have the horse trotting along pretty good, Mom would tell him to slow down or she'd be bounced out of the back seat.  This of course didn't help my selfish desire for speed.

That summer I was ten and my brother eight.  After much pleading on our part, lengthy consultations, and final consent, we were told that we could spend the summer with Gram and Gramp, providing, of course, that we would be good boys, help Gram and Gramp in every way, brush our teeth and wash without being told and go to bed early.  Glory be!  We did all that and then some.  Every waking hour was somehow stretched to two.  We were up with the birds, well scrubbed and our collective teeth brushed by the time Gram set the griddle cakes or home made pork sausage and eggs and fried potatoes or whatever was to be, on the table.  After breakfast, accompanied by the sling and Daisy, we'd get the cows and drive them up the lane to the barn.  Then we'd slop the pigs, feed the chickens and gather eggs.  We'd make our beds, dust and sweep our room, and empty the slop jars.

By this time, we were probably hungry and would go for a big slice of home made bread smothered with home made tomato jam and a glass of milk.  After that we would probably weed Gram's vegetable garden (which our Cousin Leo had so cunningly taught us to do), churn butter, separate the cream, turn the grindstone for Gramp while he swore at the blade that slipped and many other things within our capabilities.

Lunch was where we found it.  Liver sausage, summer sausage, cottage cheese etc. and always a cold glass of lemonade from the never-empty jug.  The afternoons were mostly our own unless Gramp could dream up something for us to do.  We learned to recognize the glint in his eye or Gram would tip us off and we'd beat it.  Sometimes we'd go to an adjacent farm to play with the kids there.  Sometimes we'd wander aimlessly down the road and through the woods, keeping our eyes peeled for gophers or squirrels to take a shot at.

More often, it was fishing or swimming or a combination of both.  Our poles were always down at the dock where a rowboat and two Kidney skiffs belonging to Dad were tied.  Our poles were of light cane with a length of cast off casting line attached, supplemented by a hook, a cork and a lead sinker.  A couple of turns of the fork next to the chicken coop gave us a can of worms.  If they were not available, grasshoppers or crickets would do very well.  Since we had already learned to swim and received our diplomas from a Milwaukee River Swimming School, we were permitted to use the boat or skiffs.

It wasn't very difficult to pick up a nice string of good sized perch in an hour or two, then a nice swim and home to show Gram and to start cleaning the darn things (which our Cousin Leo had so cunningly shown us how to do.)  The heaping plattersful of golden brown fish and fried potatoes for supper, however, made up for the cleaning.  After supper, we cleared the table and helped Gram with the dishes.  Then, through the stereoscope, we'd look at the entire pile of pictures showing New York, Niagara Falls, snow covered mountains, etc.  At a nod from Gram, we went up to bed.

Dad and Mother drove out every weekend with a bunch of fresh clothing and loaded down with Milwaukee rye bread, summer sausage, liver sausage, cold cuts, and a huge roast of some kind for Sunday dinner.

Mother would look us over and say that if we got any browner she'd be ashamed to take us home.  Then we'd regale both parents with our activities of the previous week.  And, thank goodness, dear old Gram would always tell about how good we had been and what a great help we were around the farm and how nice we kept our room, etc.

That late summer, we were introduced to threshing and the accompanying hazards, the ever-penetrating barbs and chaff.  The old iron rimmed wood stoked steam engine came chugging down the road followed by an assortment of rigs, buggies and wagons driven by neighboring farmers and accompanied by some wives.  The men, of course, did the threshing and the wives helped in preparing the meal.

When my brother and I were not actually in the way, we were the official bearers of water, coffee, lemonade, or beer.  I remember one farmer, in particular, who spat out an enormous was of chewing tobacco, rinsed out his mouth with water, and then drained most of the community quart bushel of beer.  As I watched in awe, he reloaded with another handful of "chaw".  Seeing me gaping open-mouthed, he tossed me the package and said, "Here sonny, if you want to try it."  Of course, I wanted to be a he-man so I took a mouthful and returned the package.  I regret to say that shortly thereafter there was only one official bearer of liquids.  Me?  I was laying on the ground behind the barn sicker than a dog.  After a few upheavals, I came to life again just as the threshing finished and the men were washing up for the noon day spread.  I was a little wan and weak but managed to eat something and another lesson was learned.  In the afternoon, my brother and I followed the thresher to the next farm to be either a nuisance or assume the bucket detail again.  Threshing usually stopped at 4 PM so that all could return home to tend to evening chores.

My brother and I beat it for the lake for a de-barbing and de-chaffing bath and swim and a change of underwear.  Another delightful memory of an unforgettable summer.

September came all too soon and it was pretty near time to go back to school.

If my memory serves me correctly, the waterfowl season in those days opened on the 16th of September and ran through the end of the year.  So it was that Mom and Dad came out to the farm a couple of days earlier so that Dad could have a few days of hunting before taking us back to the city.  Dad brought full hunting regalia which, of course, included his trusty old double with the damascus barrels and the highly embossed hammers.  He and Leo spent those couple of pre-season days checking the skiffs, repairing decoys, replacing ropes and anchors and forever scanning the lake through a telescope.  My uncle Frank came out late on Friday afternoon, and that evening, after supper, between hands of S(?)at, hunting stories of previous years were related.  I hung on every word until I was shooed to bed.

The lake was black with coots or mud-hens, with here and there, aloof from the hens, little flocks of green and blue winged teal, mallards, pintails and black-ducks.  Some single ruddies would be swimming among the coots.  These were the early birds.  The air was charged with excitement and absorbed a good share of the voltage.  I followed Leo and Dad around like a little puppy, forever asking questions and gaining knowledge from their patient answers.

When the big day arrived and they went out on the lake, I sat on the dock with the telescope and saw the smoke and the falling bird long before the sound reached me.  When, oh when would I be big enough to have a gun and go along with them?  That event occurred much, much sooner than I had ever expected or hoped for.

When they came in that afternoon, I was down at the dock to meet them and help carry the strings of ducks and mud-hens up the path to the house.  The guns were unloaded and placed against the woodshed.  Dad's old double, uncle's new double and cousin Leo's bright new Winchester pump formed the arsenal.  They were all 12 gauge.  Then they tied the birds in strings to be hung in the cold cellar.

While this was being done,  I picked up Dad's heavy old blunderbuss and verbally bang-banged away at imaginary ducks overhead.  I also bang-banged at the men folks.  For this I received a very smart clip behind the ear and sternly lectured on the folly of ever pointing a gun at any person.  "A gun is always loaded when pointed at another person."  I definitely saw them unload the guns and the point was hard to grasp for some time, but the sting of the slap and the anger in my father's voice made me realize a little later of the impact of his words.  Believe me, I have never pointed a gun at another person since.

Perhaps to ease the situation a little, Leo said, "If you're so darned anxious to shoot a gun, wait here a minute."  He disappeared into the house and in a couple of minutes came out again carrying a one shot 16-gauge single barrel.  Where he ever found that gun I didn't know.  I thought I had unearthed everything there was in the house.  If I had located it I'd have had it long ago-- sneaky like.  I later learned he kept it in Gram's clothes closet.  Anyhow, he placed one of Gramp's old Eight Brothers cans on a stump about 30 yards away, slipped in a reloaded black powder shell (he did all his own reloading) and handed the gun to me.  "Now put the gun snugly to your shoulder, cock it, aim and shoot!"

The big moment had come and I was scared stiff.  I put it up and took it down, up and down, up and down and my knees shaking so I could hardly stand.  The laughter behind me didn't help either.  Finally my cousin said, "If you don't shoot that gun, I'm going to give you a good kick in the pants."

Up came the gun again and I aimed carefully with both eyes closed.  I pulled the trigger and somehow the can flew, the gun flew, and I flew on my keester.  Amid lusty huzzahs, I picked myself up, rubbed my shoulder and my seat, blinked my eyes, retrieved the gun and asked if I could do it again.

Now a little instruction followed.  Lean forward, right foot back for bracing, etc.  How to eject, reload, half cock for safety and eye-alignment.

The can was again placed on the stump and I took careful stance.  This time I was shaking from excitement.  I leveled off, aimed and fired.  The can went sailing-- I saw it, and I was upright and I held the gun!

If you think I had a little sporting blood in my veins before, by now it was flowing like a river.

Our family drove out to the farm once more for a weekend early in the fall and believe me, I had my hands on that 16 before the rest were out of the surrey.  Dad had bought me a box of shells and during that long ride, I had dumped them out of the box a dozen times, carefully replacing them time after time, brass up, brass down, brass up, brass down until they looked pretty again.

Reluctantly (because I had to use my own precious shells) I was given more instruction that afternoon.  Finally, I graduated, cum laude, in their estimation, in my handling of the gun.  Boy!  This meant that maybe I could go hunting.  I didn't sleep much that night.  In the wee hours next morning, when Dad and Leo came downstairs, I was sitting in the kitchen waiting for them.    They laughed and promptly sent me back to bed, suggesting that, perhaps, after breakfast, if I sat on the shore, I might get a crack at a coot or a ruddy.  They said that after the first shooting the birds would split up and coots and ruddies had a habit of swimming near shore.

Well, I went back to bed with my clothes on but kept my eyes open.  I heard them make coffee and eat breakfast and start down the path to the lake.

I was out of bed like a shot and again groped my way through the darkened house to the kitchen.  On the table they had left some bread and butter and jam.  I quickly ate a couple of slices, and then stealthily snuck out the back door with the 16.

In the eerie light of early morning I could just see the two skiffs leaving the dock.  Their conversation carried and I could hear them talking about wind and where and how they would set the decoys.  It was a little scary, but I knew my way around pretty well, so I picked my way along the shore to a willow tree and sat down.  The grass was wet with dew but I didn't mind.  I could hardly see the water because of the morning mist.  Little by little it became lighter and pretty soon, lo and behold before me I could see some dark objects swimming in the open water between me and the reeds, which were probably a hundred yards away.  As if it mattered, I had no idea what they were.  My heart was pounding so I couldn't breathe.  Wouldn't somebody please start shooting so I'd know it was time?  At long last, I heard the boom-boom from the north end of the lake.  I had been told never to load a gun until shooting time.  With quavering hands I broke the gun to put in a shell and with the click, whatever they were started high-tailing for the reeds.  Shaking like a leaf, I fired and the whole kaboodle left the area.  Frustration!  What should I have done?  Loaded a little sooner?  Snuck up a little closer?  Aimed a little higher?  I was so disappointed I could have cried.  And probably did.  I re-enacted the thing a dozen times.

Since all of the activity was on the north and east shores of the lake and since each gauge has its own peculiar sound and since I was the only one on the south shore, I began to wonder if Papa might have heard me and what was in store for me when he came home.

 I sat for what seemed an eternity watching those darned mud hens (I knew what they were now) swimming among and outside the reeds.  Finally, a lone coot started swimming toward me, feeding along the way.  I want to go on record right now that I am probably the only boy in the world that ever held his breath for an hour without dying!

Closer and closer he came but, oh, so slowly.  When he seemed to be about the same distance as my practice tin can I let him have it.  Over he went, belly up, a few lazy kicks of his legs and my first shotgun quarry lay dead on the water.  What a thrill!

I raced to the dock, jumped into the rowboat and in a few minutes was holding, what to me looked like a peacock.  I went back to my stand by the willow, fondling my prize and determine now to add to the string.  Well, I was a hunter-- wasn't I?

My lil' ol' tummy was growling like crazy by now, but I'd be darned if I'd go up to the house for food.  I might miss something.

About that time my little fat brother came down to the shore.  Gramp told him I must be down there, but I was so well concealed that he couldn't find me until I called to him.

I proudly displayed my prize and told him to go back to the house and bring me a big sandwich and a glass of milk.  Like a good little brother he promptly obeyed, and I went back to concealment.  He must have taken a long detour, or they had to milk a cow or kill a pig to make the sausage, for I thought he'd never come back.  My belly was rumbling so by now that that was enough to scare any birds away.

At last he came, and I don't believe I have every enjoyed a sandwich or milk as much as I did that morning.

He sat with me for a while, but he was the fidgety type, so I sent him home again to play with the dogs or something.  I resumed my role as hunter.  Not too long after, I thought I saw something sneaking along close to the shoreline.  Sure enough, it was a duck.

Again I held my breath and quivered with excitement.  O.K., here goes -- bal-loom -- and I had myself a duck.  I retrieved it with the rowboat and you never saw a prouder kid in your life.

The sun was quite high now and it was getting pretty warm.  As I pulled into the dock I could see Dad and Leo paddling their skiffs toward home.  In spite of what I might have coming, I could hardly wait for them to dock.  As they grew nearer I could hear them bantering about missed shots etc.  If they missed any, I'd hate to see the result if every shot had counted, for each skiff was loaded to the gunwales with mud-hens and quite a variety of ducks.  Again, I proudly displayed my brace and was roundly slapped on the back.  Was I accepted as a hunter?  Brother and Gramp came down and between us we lugged the works to the house.

So far, so good for me.  After the birds were identified to me and strung and I had bragged sufficiently to Mom and Gram about my prowess, Dad said, "Say, young man, did you shoot just after opening?"  Oh, oh, here it comes.  Of course, I answered in the affirmative.  He said, "I thought I told you not to go out until after breakfast."  I said, "I didn't, Dad."  "Well," he said, "the family must have had a very early breakfast."  "The family wasn't up yet," I said, "but I had breakfast from what you left on the table, so I went after breakfast."  "Well, I guess you win," he said.  "You're a smart little son-of-a-gun!"  The pun was intended and they all laughed.  Then Leo asked if I had shot the birds on the water.  My answer was, "Is there another way?"  He said, "Until you learn to shoot birds on the wing, you're missing all the sport and you're not a real sportsman.  But we'll get to that later."

Dad and Leo went out again that afternoon and I took my stand at the willow.  There were only occasional shots here and there and my spot was completely dead.  The day was bright and sunny and rather warm for October.  I just kept playing with my gun-- breaking it, ejecting the shell, replacing the shell, snapping together again, putting safety on and off and aiming at imaginary ducks.

One time, I happened to look across the bay and there, right close to shore, were about twenty ducks.  They were diving and swimming and sitting on their tails flapping their wings.  Their white backs and black heads glittered in the sunshine.

Oh, oh, if I could only get over there, I could kill the whole kaboodle with one shot!  The long way was down the road, past the gravel pit and through the woods.  The short way was through the swamp with cow humps(?)  I decided on the swamp.  There was good brush and willow coverage.  Of course, I stumbled and fell a couple of times but what's a little mud?  Each time I flopped, I snuck a peek to see if the ducks were still there.  They were.  Finally, I hit dry ground and climbed a little hill to get directly above them.  I darted from tree to tree and rested to catch my breath and to see if I could stop trembling.  They looked pretty big now but I knew they were too far out.  I got down on my belly and started to inch my way down the hill.  Every time I looked up they were out a little farther.  Those stinkers could smell me or something.  What to do.  I decided to get up and make a run for the shore and blam into them.   Which I did.  The net result was one lousy duck laying on the water.  After all that effort and only one duck!  While I was consoling myself, I'll be darned if he didn't shake himself a little and take off.  All that work and no ducks!  Frustration!

We had an early supper of mud-hen stew and potato dumplings and then back to Milwaukee where the knee pants, high button shoes and beanie were waiting.  The family had planned to go out again for the Thanksgiving weekend, but, much to my disgust, the snow was very heavy and the lake was frozen and so ended that year.
[End of manuscript]

GRANDSON mentioned in reference to slingshot was probably Paul BEYLER, born 1952, which would give a date of c1957 for writing of this manuscript, corroborated by date of 1957 as last entry in outline.  Mil lived until 1972 but never finished his narrative.  --CEB