126 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 



blades from the water your wrists are slightly moved 

 forward, the oars are spooned, and the broad blades 

 lightly skip on the surface, while little globules of water 

 look as silver in the moon's rays. How quietly grand 

 the scene as we go down the river. Above and below 

 us the shimmering water, overhead the crescent moon, 

 the twinkling stars. At the east the quiet island, where, 

 in the darkness, oak and willows, hickory and birch, ash 

 and maple trees, commingle together in indistinct pro- 

 fusion. At the west is the slumbering city, with its 

 massive houses, its tall spires and towering mill stacks, 

 vieing with each other in their efforts to pierce the 

 clouds. The frosty air would soon make an inactive 

 person suffer from cold. You are at the oars. I keep 

 up a circulation by constantly working the sculling oar, 

 while Don, poor dog, his teeth chattering mutely ap- 

 peals to us for warmth. We cover him with an old coat. 

 As he snoozes his cold nose into the dry hay and gently 

 wags his tail, he conveys to us his silent but expressive 

 thanks. 



The rapid current keeps us on our journey, and soon 

 we pass beneath the railroad bridge, and are wending our 

 way through this vast swamp, this renowned marsh, 

 the Meredosia bottoms. All round us the low, flat 

 marsh revels in monotony. In any and every direction 

 we behold a deep darkness, the earth and sky seeming to 

 meet as one. In the murky gloaming we thread narrow 

 channels, through flags and rice, our only guide being 

 the lighter appearance of the water which we follow. 

 It is well I know this marsh, for in this darkness all is 

 the same in appearance. We will stop here, for in the 

 early dawn this place is a passing point where ducks of 

 all kinds fly over, going to and from their feeding 



