356 DUCK-SHOOTING. 



time my friend selected a spot near a sort of semi- 

 island, that was submerged or not, according to the 

 state of the water, and near which was a favorite 

 roosting-place. 



The sun was leisurely dropping down the west- 

 ern sky, throwing his slanting rays across the broad 

 bay, and lighting up the distant club-house as by a 

 fire. The fringe of land, trees, and bushes, that 

 shut out the horizon and rose but little above the 

 water level, was growing dim and hazy of outline. 

 The wind had died away; and stillness, but for the 

 quacking of the ducks; the splashing of the coots, or 

 so-called mud-hens, and the occasional report of a 

 gun, reigned supreme. A lethargy seemed to have 

 fallen upon the birds ; a distant flock alone would at 

 long intervals greet our eyes, and for some time our 

 evening's sport bade fair to prove a failure. 



However, as the sun was about to sink, the birds 

 began to arrive, at first one or two at a time, then 

 more rapidly and in larger flocks, till at last it was 

 one steady stream and whirr of wings. Faster than 

 we could load, faster than we could shoot, or could 

 have shot had we had fifty guns, from all quarters 

 and of all kinds they streamed past ; now the sharp 

 whistle of the teal, then the rush of the mallard, 

 sometimes high over our heads, at others darting 

 close beside us ; by ones, by twos, by dozens, by 

 hundreds, crowded together in masses or stretched 

 in open lines, in all variety of ways, but in one un- 

 interrupted flight. 



Such shooting rarely blesses the fortunate sports- 



