IO8 WILDFOWL SHOOTING IN THE WESTERN STATES. 



them when wounded, for they will dart at his eyes 

 with amazing swiftness and precision, and their beak 

 is a most formidable weapon, long, sharp, and hard 

 as bone. 



It is now well on in the day, game has become 

 even more abundant at a log hut we had procured 

 a brace of lads to carry our spoils, no light loads, 

 I can assure the reader when Mark attracts my 

 attention and beckons me to look off to the south- 

 ward. I do so. Over an enclosure, which appears 

 to have contained corn, I observe numerous wild- 

 fowl sailing. They are mallards, not a doubt of it, 

 and evidently in strength. Near here is a ford, well 

 defined by waggon wheels at their entrance and exit 

 from the water. 



Mark is not particular about getting wet when 

 sport is on the tapis, and so he and his bearer soon 

 regain my side. " I know that spot well," he says, 

 " there is a " slough " there, and the most of the corn 

 got drowned out last spring, two or three weeks after 

 planting-time. There's a fence run's up to it on the 

 far side, and under its shelter we can reach the water. 

 The wind, too, will just suit. Jerusalem, we're in 

 luck. See what a crowd of birds are coming up." 



There was, indeed, a crowd of " fowl," and these 

 seemed to be every moment joined by fresh arrivals. 



We returned to the edge of the water, and kept 

 the river bed for some distance, then emerged from 

 it near a miserable farmhouse in the centre of a locust 

 grove. This, I learned, was where my waggon was 

 to meet us, and I inwardly prayed that there would 

 be no mistake in its doing so, for to pass a night in 

 such a poverty-stricken shanty I did not hanker 

 after, especially when I knew that folks that live in 

 such "ramshackle" dwellings invariably go to bed as 

 soon as the sun goes down, giving you good twelve 

 hours, at the very least, to kick about on a miserable 

 and, probably, very dirty floor. In " the Far West " 



