350 DUCK SHOOTING. 



that seat, and does it so expeditiously that with the 

 report of the gun both Jim and the ducks disappear, he 

 having- lost his balance by the recoil of the gun and 

 Dan's untimely move. He clutches frantically at the 

 air, but it avails him not. There is a resounding 

 splash, and Jim's feet are hanging on the edge of the 

 boat, while his body is in the water. He holds the gun 

 at arm's length above the water, the muzzle wobbling 

 suggestively in a line with my head, as he endeavors 

 to dislodge his feet. I think, "Good Lord, if he should 

 pull that trigger!" and forget to offer him any assist- 

 ance in my anxiety to get out of range of that gun bar- 

 rel. But in less time than it has taken to tell it, Jim is 

 on his feet in water up to his middle, indulging in such 

 roars of laughter as to nearly frighten the ducks into 

 spasms, and sending them scurrying out of the creek 

 as if the devil himself was chasing them. You may be 

 sure I laughed with him. It makes me smile to this 

 day when I think of Jim hanging by his heels, head 

 down, in that little creek. 



This mishap spoiled our shooting, but we succeeded 

 in stopping a couple of ducks as they passed out. Put- 

 ting up a small sail, we sped down the Chipoax and 

 Lome, fairly well satisfied with our bag of seven ducks. 



To me, Chipoax Creek was a joy forever, and really 

 possessed no mean beauties when viewed at high water. 

 It sweeps in graceful curves through the green marsh, 

 its course as crooked as a blacksnake's track, now run- 

 ning under a steep bank from which the trees reach 

 down their branches as if to drink, and further on, its 



