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Wells, Chester Caesar (ed.) / The Wisconsin magazine
Volume X, Number 3 (December 1912)

Passmore, Eric William
Duck hunting on the St. Croix,   pp. 27-28


Page 27


TO THE ROCKIES
                        TO THE ROCKIES
                            By Ruth Boyle, '16
                   Mountains, just the might of you
                   Grips me as a God would do;
                   Holds my finer self in thrall,
                   Bids me, body, soul and all
                   Grasp at, gain and give away
                     The best of life I can to-day.
                   To-morrow then, more worlds to reach,
                   Greater pain, new truths to teach.
                   Naked mountains, lying bare
                   To the smiling heaven there
                   Your age-old, calm might mine is too,
                   For you're of me and I'm of you;
                   Both of woof the strange gods spin;
                   Mountains, mountains, we are kin!
DUCK HUNTING ON THE ST. CROIX
                    By Eric William    Passmore,'14
THE STARS were still shining brightly
     in the blue night sky and the curtains
of the shack were undulating in the breeze,
when the shrill buzz of the alarm clock
awoke us. My roommate grunted sleepily,
but to no avail, as I hauled him from his
warm cot. Half asleep we dressed and
pulled on our heavy hunting boots, strap-
ped on our belts, and picking up our guns,
stole softly out of the dark hut. The night
breeze struck coolly on our drowsy faces
and set the shadowy tree-tops nodding, as
we strode through the quiet woods to the
river, our boots now crunching on the
gravel, now shuffling through the sodden
autumn leaves.  Once on silent ghostly
wings the great horned owl, the banshee
of the Northern Woods, flapped above us
high in the cedars, but otherwise the night
prowlers of the wild kept unobserved.
   Long before the stars had paled, we had
 launched the canoe and were paddling
swiftly and noiselessly over the leaden sur-
face of the river; the only sound the drip-
drip of the paddles and the ripple of the
quiet waters under our bow. The dew was
heavy on the swaying rushes and the night
mist was hanging over the blurred mass of
the great marsh.
  Now Orion and the Great Dipper were
swinging low in the moonless sky, as we
reached the upper stretches of the river,
and the blackbirds were chattering sleepily
in the reeds, while occasionally we \could
hear the muffled splashes of rice hen or
coot. At last, where the narrow creek
broadened out into a small pond, we drove
the canoe into a blind of rushes, and
waited for the sunrise which would bring
the ducks across from the wild rice fields
to the north. In the east the lower horizon
still blended sky and land together, but
higher in the sky a faint glow of pink was
spreading through the gray, and, even as
27


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