My dad, who was born in 1917, used to tell a story of how, as a 10 year old boy, was just dying to shoot one of the ducks he'd seen at the pond past the tree line behind the house. So he "borrowed" his dad's 10-gauge double-barrel, early one morning, and snuck out of the house before first light, so he'd be ready for them when they came in.
He found a good hiding place in the bushes near the pond but began to doze while waiting in the near dark. Suddenly he was awakened by all the quacking as the ducks circled for a landing. Somewhat taken by surprise, he swung the big gun up but, because of its weight, and his excitement, fired a little low, both barrels.
He said he didn't get 1 duck. But came home with a bushel of ducks' feet.
