The Wild Turkey 265 



the bird was carried to the boat. When fairly 

 in mid-stream, over went the gobbler, and up from 

 the bank rose a storm of reckless speech, amid 

 which could be distinguished " Git him out of 

 thot, ur Oi'll rock yez ! " And the rock pile was 

 mighty " Convaynyent." 



" Charge it to Charles Lucian Bonaparte, Prince 

 of Musignano ! " I yelled, as the paddle bent, but 

 he didn't. Instead, he charged it to the " ould 

 man," who later took the change out of my hide. 

 So far as I waited to see, that particular turkey 

 did flap along the top of the water for at least a 

 few yards. The Irishman swore that it was his 

 best bird and that it "drown-ded," yards from 

 shore, the absolute truth of which I am inclined 

 to doubt. During the next six weeks I beat that 

 Irishman to the paternal gate sometimes one yard, 

 sometimes a yard and a half — according to the start 

 we happened to get. Then we patched up a truce. 



My second experience with a swimming turkey 

 was very different and also very bitter. I had 

 found fresh "sign " about a forest-bordered marsh, 

 near the centre of which spread an acre or more 

 of open water. The proper game of the day was 

 grouse, and there was no tracking snow. A tre- 

 mendous threshing among the withered rushes 

 and leafless scrub attracted my attention to a 

 grand gobbler, which a few seconds later rose 

 above the growth and flew toward the wood. To 



