THE WOODCOCK. 33 



North. Along the little stream where the water- 

 cress was still green and the jewel-weed strug- 

 gled yet for life, those fine holes bored in the 

 mud by the long bill sent again that peculiar 

 thrill through the soul. And when the pattering 

 of the dog's feet ceased, and you found him 

 standing rigid where the sunlight filtered through 

 half-bare saplings, you felt repaid for your toil. 

 But before you could get half-way to the dog, 

 the brown would rise with sharper whistle of 

 swifter wings than those of summer, and, dis- 

 daining the fine course you had selected for its 

 flight, wheel suddenly behind the russet leaves 

 that still clung to a white-oak, through which 

 your first barrel spouted vain smoke, and then 

 as suddenly whirl around the golden crown of 

 a chestnut before you could kindle the fire in 

 your second barrel. And you felt glad though 

 mad, happy though disappointed. 



In the West the woodcock is the same lovely 

 and mysterious bird he is in the East, though he 

 nowhere makes such autumn shooting as he once 

 made on the Atlantic coast. In some places he 

 vanishes for the season about the middle of 

 August, in others, as on the upper Mississippi, 



