350 WILD SPOPwTS IN THE SOUTH. 



there are no horns. A moment of pause to be sure that 

 I am right, and the ringing shot awakens a hundred 

 echoes, and clouds the air with smoke* 



" Why, ye'nt seen no deer, did yer ?" asked Hank. 



"Yes, a doe." 



A dip of the paddle sends the boat to the shore, and 

 then discloses to my mortified gaze, the charred limb 

 of a tree, standing up in the grass, the veriest spectre of 

 a deer. 



"Well, your doe is dished now — ha ! ha!" laughs Hank. 



I load my rifle rather humbly. " Ready — push on !" 



" Don't you want to see if you hit it ?" 



" No ; push on, will you." 



The boat glided forward again, mile after mile, in the 

 same spectral journey, as fast and as still as the dead do 

 ride in the ballad of Leonora. My mind floats along with 

 the water-bugs that run ahead of me and the shadows. 

 I see the stars floating in the Avater, and those overhead 

 likewise, and many more stars than ever shone in these 

 latitudes. In fact, I got asleep. I don't think I had 

 slept long when I was awakened by a shrill noise, resem- 

 bling the letting off of steam from a small steam-engine 

 when the valve is suddenly opened and as suddenly closed 

 again. I have heard such noises in a country church 

 before the commencement of exercises, when some ple- 

 thoric deacon blowed his brazen nose, only, if anything, 

 the night-bugle was a little more emphatic, and scA^eral 

 times repeated in quick succession. " What's that ?" I 

 whispered. 



