33^ DUCK SHOOTING. 



waters still," whose hunter's shout made these grand 

 old woods ring. These red men, like me, once drank 

 in the beauty of this scene, where the mock orange trees 

 bloomed and the golden water-grass filled the river's 

 edge, while visions of the happy hunting grounds came 

 to them. 



We reached Houston's Island, where hundreds of 

 ducks were feeding, a sight to gladden any sportsman's 

 heart, as their bright plumage glistened in the sun. 

 Here Kirk, by skillful paddling, brought me into close 

 range, and more victims fell to our guns. Here on this 

 island, my guide tells me, is where Sam Rowe, the bar- 

 keeper, with his little Winchester, killed his big buck 

 from the deck of the boat, whose horns ornament the 

 boat, and upon which horns Sam "hangs many a tale" 

 for the amusement of the passengers. 



We drifted along under the high, white cliffs of Bluff 

 Port, and just below Kirk discovered, standing on the 

 heights, a flock of turkeys. We allowed our boat to 

 float directly under them, so as to be concealed. Then 

 my companion went ashore, took off his shoes and tied 

 his rifle to his back with his suspenders, and ascended 

 the cliff in a zigzag fashion. Almost as soon as he 

 reached the top the sharp crack of the rifle told the 

 doom of a big gobbler that was thrown down to me. 

 Kirk's gobbler took away all appetite for killing mal- 

 lards, but not for lunch, so we kindled a fire and fell 

 upon our eatables with a hearty zest, while I was enter- 

 tained with hunting stories. We got adrift again and 

 floated lazily on, not caring much for the ducks that we 



