530 DUCK SHOOTING. 



moreover there is plenty of time, for the game is still 

 two gunshots distant. 



Suddenly, with hardly a moment's warning, the wild 

 birds rise in the air with one accord, and vanish against 

 the dark background of the pines on the opposite shore. 

 We feel almost ready to cry. "What frightened 

 them?" you ask. Nothing; it is only a way these shy 

 black fellows have, and we could have done no better. 



And now we have time to note the surroundings, 

 the great looming shapes of the distant ice houses, the 

 tall chimneys of the pumping stations, all losing much 

 of their artificial ugliness in the gloom of early sunrise. 

 Behind us runs a high oak bluff, the tree-trunks just 

 beginning to catch the rosy eastern glow. A few 

 teams are heard rumbling over frozen roads, and across 

 the lake we mark a night-watchman trudging home- 

 ward, his lantern still lighted and swinging by his side. 

 Slowly and solemnly comes the sound of the Wenham 

 bell. Six times the message is sent out over the still 

 water, and so loud it sounds that you can scarcely be- 

 lieve the church is a mile away. 



All this time I am sweeping the lake with the glass, 

 and at last I make out three little specks. They look 

 as if they were drawing toward us. Yes, they are 

 coming, as fast as they can swim. But they are small 

 ducks, and a morning like this we should certainly get 

 a better shot. 



Ah, I thought so. There is the bunch we saw drop 

 in earlier. They haven't noticed us yet, but we will 

 see what we can do. 



