IN THE WILD RICE FIELDS. 363 



in their southward flight, not deigning to aHght, but 

 down through a mile of air sending their greeting in 

 long-drawn, penetrating notes. 



Myriads of ducks and geese, traveling from the 

 north, swept by, far overhead, without slackening a 

 wing. Far above us, the mallard's neck and head, look- 

 ing fairly black in the falling night, could be seen out- 

 stretched for another hundred miles before dark. 

 "Darkly painted on the crimson sky," the sprigtails 

 streamed along with forked rudders set for a warmer 

 region than Senachwine. Widgeon sent down a plain- 

 tive whistle that plainly said good-bye. Bluebills, wood 

 ducks, spoonbills and teal sped along the upper sky with 

 scarcely a glance at their brethren who chose to de- 

 scend among them. And far over all, with swifter 

 flight and more rapid stroke of wing than I had 

 deemed possible for birds so large, a flock of snowy 

 swans clove the thickening shades, as if intending to 

 sup in Kentucky instead of Illinois. 



Yet, of those that tarried, there were enough for me. 

 With tremulous hand, I poured my last charge into the 

 heated gun, and raised it at a flock of mallards that 

 were gliding swiftly downward, with every long neck 

 pointed directly at my devoted head. Wheeooo shot a 

 volley of green-wings between the mallards and the 

 gun ; ksssss came a mob of blue-wings by my head as I 

 involuntarily shifted the gun toward the green-wings; 

 wiff, wiff, wiff, came a score of mallards along the reed 

 tops behind me, as, completely befuddled with the whirl 

 and uproar, I foolishly shifted the gun to the blue- 



