222 SHOOTING AT SALT LAKE. 



thought it over, the stronger was my conviction. By 

 rapid calculation, the boat would go to pieces in just 

 eighty seconds. Then where, oh, where would I be ? 



It was half a mile to the landing, and deep creeks 

 and bays intervening. My friends were all hunting 

 further east. Seeing just then that he had stopped 

 wriggling, I ventured to get into the boat. I have an 

 impression that I didn t make much noise ; and I also 

 have an impression that I made that half a mile in tol 

 erably quick time, and the perspiration that streamed 

 down my face wasn t altogether caused by the heat. 



Gathering my birds together, I returned to camp, to 

 find my friends engaged in skinning a deer they had 

 just shot, and planning an excursion to a neighboring 

 lake for heron. Notwithstanding my weariness, after 

 placing a pound or two of venison and slapjacks where 

 they would benefit me most, I was ready, and launched 

 upon the lake just as the sun went down. Having a 

 trolling spoon, I drew forth from their retreat several 

 broad-tailed black bass, with mouths like steel traps and 

 possessed of the strength of young alligators. After an 

 hour s rowing and wading, we burst through the cane- 

 brake and emerged into a little lake, upon one side of 

 which was a long, low, willow island, from which scores 

 of herons silently flew away. Concealing ourselves, we 

 waited. Soon they came ; by dozens and fifties the im 

 maculate and glossy plumaged birds approached. Then 

 the firing commenced, and continued till each one was 

 satisfied and ready to return. Emerging from the canes, 

 and rowing across the lake, we returned to camp laden 

 with birds nearly as large as ourselves. In the soft 

 moonlight we looked strange and ghost-like, with our 

 burdens of white. Leaving the preparation of the birds 



