WILD TURKEY HUNTING, Q7 
bloomed out, the enchanting cluck greets his ear; on, on 
he comes—like the gay horse towards the inspiring music 
of the drum, or like a bark beating against the wind, 
gallantly but slowly. 
The dark cold barrel of the gun is now not more 
silent than is the hunter; the game is playing just out- 
side the very edge of its deadly reach; the least mis- 
take, and it is gone. 
One gentle zephyr, one falling twig, might break the 
charm, and make nature revolt at the coyness apparent 
in the mistress, and then the lover would wing his way 
full of life to the woods. 
But on he comes—so still is every thing that you 
hear his wings distinctly as they brush the ground, 
while the sun plays in conflicting rays and colored lights 
about his gaudily bronzed plumage. 
Suddenly, the woods ring in echoing circles back 
upon you; a sharp report is heard. 
Out starts, alarmed by the noise, a blue jay, which 
squalls as he passes in waving lines before you, so rudely 
wakened was he from sleep. 
But our rare and beautiful bird,—our gallant and 
noble bird,—our cunning and game bird, where is he ? 
The glittering plumage—the gay step—the bright eye 
—all—all are gone :— 
Without a movement of the muscles, our valorous 
lover has fallen lifeless to the earth. 
