SHOT AT A LOON. 17 1 



vulnerable points. They sit so deep in the water, 

 and the quills on their backs are so hard and com- 

 pact that a ball seems to make no impression on 

 them. At least, I have never seen one killed by be- 

 ing shot through the body. Such are the means of 

 self-preservation possessed by this curious bird, whose 

 wild, shrill, and lonely cry, on the lake at midnight, 

 is one of the most melancholy sounds I ever heard 

 in the forest. 



This diver, of which I was just now speaking, I 

 wished very much to kill, in order to carry his skin 

 to New York with me ; and so, after firing at him 

 in vain, I asked Mitchell if we could not both of us 

 together manage to take him. He told me to land 

 him where the channel was narrow that entered Lono- 

 Lake, and paddle along towards where the fellow was 

 sitting, and drive him out. As I approached the bird, 

 he dived. Knowing that he would make straight for 

 the lake, I watched the whole line of his progress 

 with the utmost care : but though my range took in 

 nearly a third of a mile, I never saw him again. 

 After a while I heard the crack of a rifle around the 

 bend of the shore ; and hastening thither, I found Mit- 

 chell loading his gun. He said the rascal just raised 



