256 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 
“It was born a year ago last May.” 
“ And its name?” gasped he. 
* Anas boschas — or, mallard duck. They have no 
christian name. You seem to doubt my knowledge of 
ducks,” said I, “now I am going to demonstrate to you, 
what a gifted duck-shooter cando. When I say ‘ gifted’ 
I mean just what I say. I mean when a human being 
is blessed with the power of scenting or smelling live 
ducks—” 
“Do you mean to say that you can do this?” said 
he, as he looked at me with disgust depicted on his 
bright face. | 
“ Most certainly !”’ said I. 
He gave me a look of pity and sorrow, exclaiming, 
“Did you ever hear the fate of Sapphira ?” 
“Yes,” said I, “but don’t pass judgment on me with- 
out trial. It is indescribable just how I can catch and 
retain scent; possibly, it’s owing to the peculiar con- 
struction and formation of my nasal appendage ; you 
will notice the conformation of it,—the enlarged nos- 
trils; the hook at the end ;—perhaps these aid me to 
accept and retain the scent, after once it is discovered. 
What it smells like is equally impossible to relate. It 
seems like a combination of odors; of aromatic herbs, 
of dew-covered plants, of night-blooming cereus, musk 
and a fresh water smell, all mixed together. But only 
be patient, and when we get near game you can test 
this power yourself; may be you can experience it.” 
He was too much overcome to reply, but his looks 
were indicative of his thoughts. We were now near a 
tow-head; a small island in the centre of the river. 
Not a bird was to be seen; neither did I expect it on 
the side we were on. The island was narrow and could 
