60 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 



Hiding, peeping, behind the hnlf open door, 



Wailing to kiss me, once, twice or more, 

 Never forgetting at the hour of noon, 



That tliy father will return from his office soon. 



Dropping dolls, and playthings, where' ere you be, 



Hastening to the window, watching for me; 

 " Let's run and meet him, you and I, 



See who gets there soonest. Mamie or My.*' 



" Who gets there first, she shall have this, 



The longest and the sweetest kiss;" 

 The choicest blessings of Heaven, on thee I invoke, 

 And smile, at childhood's reason for loving papa, 

 " 'Cause he doesn't 'moke." 



You have your solace ? so have I. I trust we all 

 have. We start again, and thread our way over the 

 over-flowed land. A splash startles us ! Looking for the 

 cause, we see a muskrat, more scared than we, swim- 

 ming away from us for dear life. The glimmer of light 

 through the trees tells us of a large body of water. 

 We start for it. The trees stand closely together. 

 With oars we could never get through them ; propelled 

 from the stern the boat rushes forward. You hold your 

 breath, expecting to see the blind knocked off the bow, 

 or brace yourself, anticipating a crash. You think it 

 hardly possible to go through the place headed for. 

 The bow is within a foot of the tree ; you close your 

 teeth firmly together, shut your eyes involuntarily. 

 With a quick movement of the sculling oar, aided 

 by the slight current, the boat glides quietly between the 

 two trees, not even grazing them, and you can hardly be- 

 lieve your senses, as you notice there wasn't an inch to 

 spare on either side. We reach the opening. It is the 

 river. We rest for a few moments, drifting with the 

 current. Down at our right, nestled closely together, 

 are many small islands, clinging to the Iowa shore, at the 

 mouth of Elk River. That small house at our left, on 



