DAYS ON THE ILLINOIS. 113 



we would generally manage to raise about the 

 time the last duck was a little too far. Often 

 Wilson's snipe came trotting along the boggy 

 strip of shore beyond the reeds, and if we kept 

 perfectly still we could see the little beauty 

 probe the mud, pull out worms and sling them 

 down his marvelous throat, that no bottomless 

 pit can rival in capacity. Then he would stand 

 a few moments with a look of sublime content in 

 his deep dark eye, and perhaps squat awhile in 

 some little tuft of grass, though he generally 

 wore a restless foot and seemed to like change 

 quite well. 



Amusement on the bottoms of the Illinois, 

 many years ago, was by no means limited to the 

 days when the winged myriads were pouring 

 from the North. Hot, malarious, and mosquito- 

 ridden though it was, summer left many a duck 

 behind to breed, instead of following the main 

 army to the North. When the tender blue of 

 the iris began to fade on the stalks of green that 

 fringed the ponds of the bottoms, the old duck 

 led out some little scraps of yellow down that 

 floated on the water as softly as the shadows of 

 the summer clouds. While the old one sought 



