SHOOTING MALLARDS FROM A SCULL BOAT. 61 



the shore of that quiet bay, is the home of Johnson, the 

 fisherman. Often, in passing the place in the dim 

 twilight, those huge reels on which you see the nets 

 are set out against the sky so dimly, that a very feeble 

 stretch of the imagination brings before me, a Don 

 Quixote and some Rozinante charging these wind- 

 mill looking reels ; and I can see him repulsed, by the 

 impetuosity of his charge, unhorsed, but not discour- 

 aged. This island just below us is the dividing point the 

 head of Illinois slough. The slough winds its narrow 

 length, serpentine like, and empties into the Mississippi 

 fully twelve miles below. 



We will go down the river ! The continuous bang- 

 ing we now hear will drive the ducks into the river, or on 

 the islands in the river, where the hunter with muzzle- 

 loader, zulu, and black hat won't bother them. Certain- 

 ly ! I noticed them some time ago. They must be 

 holding some kind of a convention, there is such a 

 big raft of them right in the channel. Down they go ! 

 Those were red-heads ! Could tell by the way they 

 lit. No circling, no flying around ; they flew straight 

 and struck the water. The force of their flight sliding 

 them along like a boy on ice. Look at those pin-tails ! 

 They drop as if from the clouds. Those mallards ; how 

 they circle, and then, when ready to light, flutter over 

 the place picked out as if in doubt. See the blue-bills 

 dart in with a swish ! Pretty good ! That flock of 

 blue-winged teal pass them by contemptuously, in 

 spite of the frequent calls. Dainty little fellows ! 

 They are bound for some mud-bank or rice-bed. We 

 will hug this bank until the current brings them oppo- 

 site, or nearly so; then, holding the bow a little up 

 stream, will gradually work out and they will drift 



