SHOOTING IN MINNESOTA. 113 



artist could paint, and whose pellucid blue waters 

 were margined with a belting of wild rice. The 

 season was that at which wild fowl come from the 

 North, retreating before the rapidly following Arctic 

 gales, on their route to the lagoons and savannahs of 

 the sunny South. Game was not only abundant but 

 unusually tame. The day was such as nearly every 

 sportsman can recall to mind, if he be so observant 

 as to mark those peculiarities in the weather which 

 have struck him as being fruitful of sport. On the 

 occasion I speak of the sky was dark and unbroken 

 by clouds, the wind was hushed into whispers, and 

 the refraction of light made every object appear more 

 than double its proper size. The atmosphere was 

 surcharged with electricity, and all animal life was 

 suffering under its lethargic influence. 



My game-bag was full, containing more, in fact, 

 than was absolutely necessary for culinary uses ; but 

 among its contents were several rare specimens of 

 American aquatic fowls, the desire to possess speci- 

 mens of which had induced me to be more than 

 usually destructive of life and lavish of ammunition. 



Determined not to throw away another shot, 

 unless tempted by some unknown bird, and suffering 

 much from the oppression of the close atmosphere, 

 I sat down upon a boulder, and although half- 

 dozing, still retained sight of a flock of black-duck 

 (Anas obscura) which were floating on the surface, 

 apparently asleep, and certainly unconscious of dan- 

 ger, although within sixty yards of my perch. 



