218 SHOOTING AT SALT LAKE. 



exultant screams, and fled in sudden terror before the 

 piratical attack of the eagle. Ranged along the shore 

 were the various representatives of the heron family, 

 from the watchful great blue to the wary and graceful 

 snowy heron. Started up the busy multitude upon the 

 shore, I let fly a single barrel at them, picking up near 

 thirty birds, yellow-legs, killdee, and red-breasted snipe. 

 Then (for I wasn t bloodthirsty at all, and cared more 

 for variety than quantity), I deposited my birds in a 

 place of safety, and cautiously waded through the long 

 matted grass, the abode of moccasin snakes, to a space 

 swept clean by fire. Scarcely had my feet touched its 

 border, when my ear was delighted with the sound, wel 

 come to all sportsmen, &quot; scaip, scaip,&quot; denoting the pres 

 ence of genuine snipe. From every side, before, behind, 

 came that welcome &quot; scaip,&quot; as the birds arose at my 

 approach, or at the report of my gun. \Visps of them 

 would launch into the air, whence after a few fantas 

 tic evolutions they would return to earth again. I fre 

 quently got double shots, and might have loaded myself, 

 but as there was no one near to share the sport, and future 

 wants might need supply here, I drew off early, deposit 

 ing my booty with their cousins of the shore. This was 

 sufficient for the small birds, and launching my boat 

 and running out from the little creek, I made an on 

 slaught on a flock of coots (for coots breasts and drum 

 sticks are good, well boiled), and then skirted a broad 

 bay, where were feeding large flocks of pin-tail ducks, 

 teal, and scattered groups of black ducks. Without 

 inflicting upon the reader a detailed account of the 

 approach, through blind ponds, and within shot of 

 countless hundreds of busy plover aud snipe, I will add 



