RIVER SHOOTING. 339 



would sometimes drift upon so noiselessly that we 

 Would catch them asleep upon logs, with their heads 

 tucked under their wings. Our boat was nearly full, 

 and often we did not disturb the slumbers of the solitary 

 old drake as he enjoyed his siesta on a log. 



As we pass Spring Bluff we hear the mellow notes of 

 Steve Brown's horn vainly endeavoring to call back his 

 dogs from the pursuit of a deer. The. deer's crossing 

 place on the river was only a quarter of a mile below, 

 and Kirk took his place quickly in the middle of the 

 boat, seized his oars and pulled hard and fast that we 

 might intercept him. We were just in time to see a 

 big buck take to water, and a few pulls on the oars 

 brought us in range of him. Kirk threw up his rifle, 

 took steady aim and fired, but only wounded him. We 

 could travel faster than the deer in water, and the skiff 

 was soon alongside of the deer, and Kirk took him by 

 the horns. A deer sinks like lead when shot dead in 

 water, and we had to manoeuvre well to get him to the 

 shore. Kirk proposed to mount and ride him ashore, as 

 we were towed along, but to this I objected, thinking it 

 best to gain a little time for Brown's dogs to come. 

 The dogs soon arrived, and seeing the situation of 

 things swam out to our assistance. With their aid the 

 deer was killed, landed, disemboweled and was soon 

 lying with our game in the boat. 



We were soon adrift again, and long shadows on the 

 Bigby's bosom told us that the day was closing. Away 

 below we heard the welcome sound of the "Clara's" 

 double whistle. As the current carries us down, our 



