110 Mr Audubon on huntiiig- the Cougxir or 



which his occupation requires, and will march in his rear, as if 

 we were spies, watching all his motions. 



His dress, you observe, consists of a leather hunting-shirt, 

 and a pair of trowsers of the same material. His feet are well 

 moccassined ; he wears a belt round his waist ; his heavy rifle 

 is resting on his brawny shoulder ; on one side hangs his ball- 

 pouch, surmounted by the horn of an ancient bufl^alo, once the 

 terror of the herd, but now containing a pound of the best gun- 

 powder ; his butcher-knife is scabbarded in the same strap ; and 

 behind is a tomahawk, the handle of which has been thrust 

 through his girdle. He walks with so rapid a step that, proba- 

 bly, few men besides ourselves, that is myself and my kind 

 reader, could follow hiin, unless for a short distance, in their 

 anxiety to witness his ruthless deeds. He stops, looks at the 

 flint of his gun, its priming, and the leather cover of the lock, 

 then glances his eye towards the sky, to judge of the course 

 most likely to lead him to the game. 



The heavens are clear, the red glare of the morning sun 

 gleams thi-ough the lower branches of the lofty trees, the dew 

 hangs in pearly drops at the tip of every leaf. Already has 

 the emerald hue of the foliage been converted into the more 

 glowing tints of our autumnal months. A slight frost appears 

 on the fence-rails of his little corn-fields. As he proceeds he 

 looks to the dead foliage under his feet, in search of the well 

 known traces of a buck's hoof. Now he bends toward the 

 ground, on which something has attracted his attention. See ! 

 he alters his course, increases his speed, and will soon reach the 

 opposite hill. Now, he moves with caution, stops at almost 

 every tree, and peeps forward, as if already within shooting dis- 

 tance of the game. He advances again, but how very slowly ! 

 He has reached the declivity upon which the sun shines in all 

 its growing splendour ; — but mark him ! he takes the gun from 

 his shoulder, has already thrown aside the leathern cover of the 

 lock, and is wiping the edge of his flint with his tongue. Now 

 he stands like a monumental figure, perhaps measuring the dis- 

 tance that lies between him and the game which he has in view. 

 His rifle is slowly raised, the report follows, and he runs. Let 

 us run also. Shall I speak to him, and ask him the I'esult of 

 his first essay ? Assuredly, reader, for I know him well. 



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