DUCK-SHOOTING. 251 
handsome clothes, my hands and face, all blacker 
than my ebony friend, and stiff and heavy with the 
noisome conglomeration. After resting for a few 
minutes, I gathered up my rod and started for the 
wagon, when what should I see in the other end of 
the lot but a bull. <A single glance showed me 
what I had to expect; no bull could stand such an 
object as I was. Iran and he ran. I made for the 
wagon and he after me. Such a picture as I must 
have presented, flying from an infuriate bull, may 
seem funny to you, gentlemen, but was not to me. 
We both reached the wagon and both went into it 
together—I into the seat, he into the body; the re- 
sult being that I went flying out again, on the other 
side, over the fence. The horse, which at that mo- 
ment must have been dreaming, or sleeping the sleep 
he did not have the night before, aroused by the crash, 
cast one look behind and burst his bonds and fled. 
“Tt was a long walk home; people looked 
strangely at me on the way, and some unfeeling 
ones laughed. My wagon was broken, my horse 
was ruined, my clothes were spoiled; and the only 
consolation I had, was that my brother anglers at 
the hotel felt and expressed such intense sympathy 
for my sufferings.” 
The resigned tones and manner of the speaker 
were inimitable, and his story was received with 
great satisfaction and closed the evening’s amuse- 
ments. All parties having resolved upon an early 
start, retired early, and enjoyed a rest such as the 
sportsman only knows. 
