We had to climb on the bank when we came to the deep curve, under the stump of the old oak that father cut because Pete Billings would climb it and yowl like a wildcat on cold winter nights.

Pete was wrong in his head like Paddy Ryan, only worse.
As we passed we heard the faintest sounds, so we lay and looked, and there in the dark place under the roots, where the water was deepest, huddled some of the cunningest little downy wild ducks you ever saw.
We looked at each other and never said a word.

Leon chased them out with the hoe and they swam down stream faster than old ones.

I stood in the shallow water behind them and kept them from going back to the deep place, while Leon worked to catch them.

Every time he got one he brought it to me, and I made a bag of my apron front to put them in.
The supper bell rang before we caught all of them.