126 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
glades from the water your wrists are slightly moved 
forward, the oars are spooned, and the broad blades 
lightly skip on the surface, while little globules of water 
look as silver in the moon’s rays. How quietly grand 
the scene as we go down the river. Above and below 
us the shimmering water, overhead the crescent moon, 
the twinkling stars. At the east the quiet island, where, 
in the darkness, oak and willows, hickory and birch, ash 
and maple trees, commingle together in indistinct pro- 
fusion. At the. west is the slumbering city, with its 
massive houses, its tall spires and towering mill stacks, 
vieing with each other in their efforts to pierce the 
clouds. The frosty air would soon make an inactive 
person suffer from cold. You are at the oars. I keep 
up a circulation by constantly working the sculling oar, 
while Don, poor dog, his teeth chattering mutely ap- 
peals to us for warmth. We cover him with an old coat. 
As he snoozes his cold nose into the dry hay and gently 
wags his tail, he conveys to us his silent but expressive 
thanks. 
The rapid current keeps us on our journey, and soon 
we pass beneath the railroad bridge, and are wending our 
way through this vast swamp, this renowned marsh,— 
the Meredosia bottoms. All round us the low, flat 
marsh revelsin monotony. In any and every direction 
we behold a deep darkness, the earth and sky seeming to 
meet as one. In the murky gloaming we thread narrow 
channels, through flags and rice, our only guide being 
the lighter appearance of the water which we follow. 
It is well I know this marsh, for in this darkness all is 
the same in appearance. We will stop here, for in the 
early dawn this place is a passing point where ducks of 
all kinds fly over, going to and from their feeding 
