IN THE WILD RICE FIELDS. 367 



There, again, was the bright sky, swept by long strings 

 of whizzing life, widening out and streaming toward 

 me in swift descent; and by its side was the old dog, 

 rolling with happy gallop over the buckwheat stubble, 

 slackening into a cat-like tread as he swings to leeward 

 of the clump of brush in the corner of the field, stiffen- 

 ing into rigid faith as he crawls under the fence and 

 enters the tangled woods beyond. There, again, was 

 the stately mallard, or more gorgeous wood duck, re- 

 laxing his hold on air and falling a whirl of brilliant 

 colors, or the wary old goose, with drooping neck and 

 folded wing, coming to earth with impetuous crash ; 

 and by their side the catbrier brake or hemlock-clad 

 slopes, where the wintergreen fills the air with its fra- 

 grance, while the ruffed grouse shoots like a shaft of 

 light among the dark ranks of tree trunks. And bright 

 among them all were those autumn days, when the 

 bloody sun struggles down through smoky air, and the 

 whistle of the woodcock's wing in the sapling grove 

 sends through the heart a more tender thrill than ever. 

 Succeeding years have hung many a new picture in the 

 dark rotunda that surrounds the camp-fire ; but none of 

 them, in all the freshness of youth, shines with more 

 brilliancy than still through the mist of years shine 

 those around the camp-fires on the Illinois. 



Though the morning flight of ducks is often very 

 heavy, it generally lacks that tumultuous intensity of 

 presence that characterizes the evening flight. Begin- 

 ning with the first gray of morning, when a lonely mal- 

 lard, perhaps, comes winging his way slowly out of the 



