SHOOTING MALLAliDS FROM A SCULL BOAT. 63 



as then ; at that time, I used to stand, gazing up to 

 them in silent adoration, and wonder if those lines 

 were lines of care, or the effects of wintry winds, or 

 old age . See ! how the frost-tipped leaves tremble, as 

 the slight breeze causes the outward limbs to bend to 

 you and me. They are their silent sentinels welcom- 

 ing us to their quiet home. Do you suppose they know 

 me ? They surely ought to ; for they see me every 

 year, sometimes semi-annually, often weekly. That 

 old hickory ought to remember me ; for I once killed a 

 fox squirrel, in its highest crotch ; and this great oak 

 tree too ; for years ago, I shot on that gnarled limb, 

 straight from its body, a large white owl, as it sat, half 

 asleep, half awake, blinking in the mid-day sun. When 

 I get among these trees, my spirit prompts me to say : 



"Trees of the forest and open field, 



Have you no sense of being ? Does the air, 

 The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass 



In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves 

 All unenjoyed ? When on your wintry sleep the sun 



Shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring ? 

 And when the glorious springtime comes at last, 



Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, 

 And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds ? " 



'Tis now the middle of the afternoon, and the short- 

 ening day warns us to move on. The silent trees we 

 were admiring, fade from view, hidden by the low birch, 

 willows, and maple we are now passing through. We 

 are in the low lands ; and seem at times, to brush 

 through the lower limbs of the trees as we glide along. 

 Ducks are now jumping up all round us. From be- 

 neath the branches of the birch and from behind the 

 maple, while the willow flashes appear to be full of 

 them. It is not difficult to kill them now, and we im- 

 prove the opportunity. 



