228 WILD SPORTS IN THE SOUTH. 



musingly: "Some takes kindly to that kind o' larnin'. 

 Some kin tell what kind o' duck is comin' by tlie sound 

 he makes beatin' the air. Thar was Picardo, Picardo 

 Duck Legs he was called, because he had bow legs. 

 Wall, that man hved in his canoe, and he could tell what 

 a duck was a-goin' to do jist by the waggin' of his tail. 

 He had lived on duck-meat so long he could smell a duck 

 hke a pointer dog. Thar's the natur' o' man ; when God 

 gives him a callin' he's bound to go it, or be a lazy cuss 

 ever arterwards. Duck Legs was no a'count on shore, 

 but it larnt a man somethin' to paddle a canoe with 

 hmi." 



" Come, boys," said Jackson, lighting his cigar, " it's 

 high noon now, and there are seven miles from here to 

 the open water, and seven more to Bonda Key, and two 

 dozen snipe to kill on the way." 



" And some more duck before we leave here," said the 

 Doctor. 



" Mhid your bearings now, or we will get lost here. 

 There is no palm tree to row back to." 



" Take the range of this palm-tree, and sunset ; purty 

 good marks, both on 'em," said Mike. 



"All aboard!" cries the Doctor. "Push off!" and 

 away we went, or at least the three boats went, leaving 

 Mike watching our departure, smoking away at his 

 cigarette, seemingly as unconscious as his hound that sat 

 beside him. 



There were some good shots made, as we returned, at 

 the various bunches of ducks that were hid away in the 



