252 DUCK-SHOOTING. 
man; we drove down our charges as best we could, 
sometimes having one barrel loaded or half loaded, 
sometimes the other, oftener neither, when we were 
interrupted with such glorious chances; our nerves, 
eyes, and muscles were on the strain, and to this day 
we have only to regret that we did not then pos- 
sess a breech-loader. 
The air was alive with birds; the rustle of their 
wings made one continuous hum; the heavy flocks 
approached and passed us with a sound like the 
gusty breeze of an autumn night rattling through 
the dying leaves. When the sun fled and darkness 
seemed to spring up around us, they appeared in 
the most unexpected and bewildering manner ; at 
one time from out of the glorious brilliancy of the 
western sky, then from the deep gloom of the op- 
posite quarter, darting across us or plunging down 
into the weeds near by. 
Our birds lay where they fell, and when the ap- 
proaching night bade us depart, we retrieved sixty- 
seven—the result of about one hour’s shooting— 
doubtless losing numbers that were not noticed, or 
which, being wounded, escaped. Had we not been 
awkward from a year’s idleness, or had we shot as 
the professionals of Long Island and each used a 
breech-loader, I could hardly say how many we 
might not have killed. As it was, the sport was won- 
derful, and the result sufficient to satisfy our am- 
bition. 
We lost no time in escaping from the weeds into 
the channel-ways, whither the open-water ducks— 
