SNIPE SHOOTING. 293 



Last season but one, on the prairies, I shot snipe 

 day after day, till a surfeit might have been expected, 

 and only desisted when the advancement of the season 

 proclaimed the approach of the period for breeding ; 

 and, though some might imagine such a lengthened 

 campaign would have sufficed for coming years, before 

 twelve months had slipped past I stretched my arms, 

 looked at the sky, observed the wind, all three of 

 which being favourable, anathematised, perhaps, the 

 destiny or fate that compelled me to accept more 

 sedentary town occupation. 



With that intuitive feeling that tells the swallow 

 when to migrate, the fish a change of weather, or the 

 cattle the portended storm we feel certain that all the 

 southern prairies of Illinois are now alive (March) with 

 snipe, that they are lying well to the gun, and that 

 heavy bags are being made. We can even shut our 

 eyes and imagine that we are just approaching some 

 favourite spot either bordering on a slough or stream, 

 or rich-loamed dip between swelling slopes, and that 

 the game is flushing right and left, as we cautiously 

 pursue our course down wind, while our trusty and 

 well-tried gun rapidly responds to our aim. Again 

 and again we fill and empty our blood-stained pockets, 

 till the body, from fatigue, calls " Hold, enough ! " or 

 we return, with waning day, to our little bald-faced 



