Legacy of the American Duck Call
After a moment, the duck boat glided into an opening. I could see sets of live decoys, perfectly trained fellows without the inhibitive cord and anchor, feeding within fifteen yards or more of the flag blinds. A flock of mallards appeared above the banding tree tops, then falling into the enticing lay of the skilled native caller, they set for a pitch near the first blind. Only then I saw the hunter, as a staccato of his pump gun drew my eyes where some ducks fell. I saw him nonchalantly push his boat to the kill, and aware that his boat could contain but few more ducks, he picked up the dead ducks, left the decoys there, and proceeded to a dock, where we followed him. So in the wake of the market hunter we went, Bill calling to him now and then in a bantering way. And then we struck a pathway in the flag, which ended at a duck buyers’ dock. On it was heaped a mountain of ducks. More ducks than I had ever seen piled together in all my life! The hundred and fifteen, which the market hunter disposed of at twenty-five cents each to the buyer from the East, seemed but an insignificant number in comparison. Portraits like this one were commonplace for hunters in the golden age of hunting. Most photography studios had hunting and fishing props to accommodate the needs of the hunters that would come in. This is Archie Forder from Lancing, Iowa, before a hunt on the Mississippi River.
hickory leaves, and of so simple an expression, it was almost sinister. His long, tapering fingers showed the wrinkles and whiteness which constant contact with water will give, but they exhibited none of the callousness which is the consequence of hard labor. Gunfire could be heard in all directions. Suddenly it dawned on me that I would rather watch the hunter than shoot ducks. To Bill, my guide, I imparted this, and in response he grunted acquiescence, and then laid on more laboriously with the paddle. -36-
No one commented on the pile of dead ducks. I withheld speech. The market hunter returned to his boat, and with a new supply of shells paddled back to the scene of his former activities.
An early hunting camp at Reelfoot Lake, Tennessee.