November in America is a time when certain sportsmen go mad for ducks and geese. The flyways are thick with, among other fowl, honkers coming down out of Canada. The season is on, and something rises in the blood of the hunter. It is a passion, remarked upon most lyrically by Ernest Hemingway, who once recalled, "That is the first thing I remember of ducks; the whistly, silk tearing sound the fast wingbeats make; just as what you remember first of geese is how slow they seem to go when they are traveling, and...
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