f n tbe Moo^s witb tbe Bow 



and every fresh one seems, in the time of 

 it, the best. Down in the Terre Aux 

 Boeufs, years ago, when I outwitted a 

 scarlet flamingo, that red-letter bird of all 

 low-country sportsmen, and bagged it with 

 a fine shot, the arrow stopping it short in 

 air; over on the Rigolets, when I crept 

 upon a great blue heron, under cover of a 

 mere rush-wisp; deep in the Okefinokee; 

 amid the Everglades ; on the strange bosom 

 of Okeechobee ; beside the darkly lapsing 

 flood of the Kankakee; and in many an- 

 other bowman's paradise, where I have 

 gathered and garnered, there was some- 

 thing original ; but not one spot in lowland 

 or highland, from the Leelanau to the Kis- 

 simmee, excelled the region in which Jar- 

 vis was master. Here I had freedom in 

 its purest form, and here I breasted the 

 flood-tide of migrating song-birds, while 

 spying upon all the resident species. Let 

 my note-book, with its sketches jotted down 

 on the spot, speak awhile in testimony of 

 what happened. 



April 19. Struck the cabin of an ancient Geor- 

 gian acquaintance here by accident. Fiddler, 

 222 



