WILD TURKEY SHOOTING. 371 



whiff! of a turkey's wings, as it rises on the hill-side, 

 and comes past me into a tree not forty yards away, on 

 the edge of the pond. It is a hen turkey, and wears a 

 beard. She turns her head about, and carefully looks in 

 every direction, to see if anything dangerous can be dis- 

 covered. Here comes another; but this one goes on, and 

 lights near the buzzards. Soon a dozen or more have 

 gone to roost, but not an old gobbler has yet been 

 heard. The hunter waits; for, while two fine hens and a 

 young gobbler are in easy reach of his shot-gun, the time 

 has not yet come for work, it not being dark enough; 

 and then he wants to see if some old gobblers are not 

 coming, too. They nearly always are later than the hens 

 about going to roost very like the male of the "genus 

 homo" in these degenerate days. Ah, there's a gob- 

 bler ! His heavy flight can not be mistaken; he can not 

 be seen, but he is marked, nevertheless, and is not 

 100 yards up the creek. Sakes alive ! Here comes 

 one right at me, passing so near that I instinctively 

 duck my head, though he passed thirty feet over me. 

 In a big pecan-tree, twenty steps away, he stops on the 

 very scaffold of death. He is mine. Two others are 

 heard above, in the creek, and then all is quiet again. 

 From his secure hiding-place, the hunter contentedly 

 watches his game, and plans the assault, while he waits 

 for the darkness to deepen. There they stand, their 

 feathers hanging loosely, indicating that they are not 

 alarmed one bit; but they peer about, dropping their 

 heads below the line of their bodies, until at last, one by 

 one, they ease themselves down upon their perches, their 

 tails hanging almost straight down; and then they look 

 to be satisfied that all is well for one more night. Alas 

 for them ! how often security is only fancied ! It is now 

 dark enough so dark that a man can not be distin- 

 guished from a tree thirty yards; but above it is light 



