DAYS AMONG 2' HE PLOVER. IJI 



notes falling louder and sweeter as they fringed 

 the clouds. 



As I reloaded all was silent except the song- 

 sparrow warbling in the fragrant sassafras, or the 

 wren twittering his late piece in the blackberry- 

 bushes ; but before I had gone far there was an- 

 other wild yet tender triplet of sound somewhere 

 on land or sky, and I swung the gun half around 

 the horizon before I discovered two plover clear- 

 ing the top of the corn scarce twenty-five yards 

 away, A double shot at the upland plover was a 

 thing we scarcely dared dream of. And a double 

 shot at anything was not easy for a boy of my 

 age in those days. We were not born of flame, 

 swaddled with powder-smoke, and tutored by 

 thunder as many "professionals" are to-day. 

 We never shot at anything but game, for ammuni- 

 tion cost money, and the loading, and especially 

 the cleaning, of a muzzle-loader bore a painful 

 resemblance to work. Nor did we see the vast 

 importance of making machines of ourselves, cr 

 we should have been better shots. But here the 

 chance for a double shot on this wild bird stared 

 me in the face with dazzling certainty. Too 

 often has such delightful assurance upset the 



