194 WILD SPOETS IN THE SOUTH. 



ing at the different accounts of the day's adventures, and 

 the droll remarks of the men, who were in the greatest 

 glee at the success of the hunt. The shore birds were 

 running before us, or wheeling over our heads, and Lou 

 Jackson was telling their names, and how their coming 

 marked the progress of the year. The sands were hard 

 and level, just rippled by the sea. The day was waning 

 in that clearness of atmosphere and stillness of decay 

 that marks the early fall, ere a leaf has dried enough 

 to rustle. Mike's ugly face seemed to draw a reflec- 

 tion from the season; Poke's laugh was as musical 

 as the waters, and, wearied with the day's exertion, I 

 scarcely knew how pleasantly the moments were falling, 

 until now, when looking them over through the telescope 

 of years. 



