LOON-SHOOTING IN A THUNDER-STORM. 



THE shrill cry of a loon piercing the air broke 

 my heavy slumber, and brought me to my 

 feet in an instant, rifle in hand. The night before, 

 late in the evening, we had run our boat ashore, and, 

 stretching ourselves on either side of the quickly 

 lighted camp-fire, with no shelter but the overhang- 

 ing trees, dropped instantly to sleep. Erom that 

 slumber, almost as deep as that which is endless, 

 the cry of a loon had aroused me. Directly in 

 front of the camp, with his long black head and 

 spotted back glistening in the sun, some fifteen 

 rods from the shore, the magnificent bird sat, 

 eying the camp. If there is any sound which will 

 start a fellow to his feet quicker than the cry of a 

 loon under his camp, about six in the morning, I 

 have yet to hear it. Wide awake the instant I 

 struck the perpendicular, I dropped my rifle — 

 never in those woods, by day or night, beyond 

 reach — into the extended palm, and simidtane- 

 ously the sharp concussion broke the surrounding 

 silence. The sight was good, and the lead well sent ; 

 but the agile bird, — well named the Great Northern 



