VI. 



DAYS AMONG THE DUCKS. THE EVENING 

 FLIGHT. 



Along the bottom-lands of the Illinois River 

 the flag was fading and tints of gray were be- 

 ginning to creep over the stately head of the 

 cat-tail, the scarlet plume of the cardinal-flower 

 was drooping, while the arms of the Cottonwood 

 above it were shedding yellowing leaves into the 

 smooth waters, when, toward the middle of an 

 afternoon in 1864, with a light boat and a com- 

 panion, I was winding up one of the sloughs that 

 lead from the river into the bottoms. Along the 

 muddy shores Wilson's snipe was lounging with 

 easy grace, probing the soft mud, or squatting 

 in some little bunch of grass and waiting for the 

 boat to come within a few feet before springing 

 into his erratic flight. His long bill and peculiar 

 head, large lustrous eyes and gamy hues, made 

 never a more pretty picture than when mirrored 



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