SHOOTING MALLARDS FROM A SCULL BOAT. 63 
as then; at that time, I used to stand, gazing up to 
them in silent adoration, and wonder, if those lines 
were lines of care, or the effects of wintry winds, or 
old age? See! how the frost-tipped leaves tremble, as 
the slight breeze causes the outward limbs to bend to 
youand me. They are their silent sentinels welcom- 
ing us to their quiethome. Do you suppose they know 
me? ‘They surely ought to; for they see me every 
year, sometimes semi-annually, often weekly. That 
old hickory ought to remember me ; for I once killed a 
fox squirrel, in its highest crotch; and this great oak 
tree too; for years ago, I shot on that gnarled limb, 
straight from its body, a large white owl, as it sat, half 
asleep, half awake, blinking in the mid-day sun. When 
I get among these trees, my spirit prompts me to say : 
“Trees of the forest and open field, 
Have you no sense of being? Does the air, 
The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass 
In gushes o’er your delicate lungs, your leaves 
All unenjoyed ? When on your wintry sleep the sun 
Shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring ? 
And when the glorious springtime comes at last, 
Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, 
And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds ?” 
Tis now the middle of the afternoon, and the short- 
ening day warns us to move on. ‘The silent trees we 
were admiring, fade from view, hidden by the low birch, 
willows, and maple we are now passing through. We 
are in the low lands; and seem at times, to brush 
through the lower limbs of the trees as we glide along. 
Ducks are now jumping up all round us. From be- 
neath the branches of the birch and from behind the 
maple, while the willow flashes appear to be full of 
them. It is not difficult to kill them now, and we im- 
prove the opportunity. 
