SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 259 



hunter, naturalist, or whatever you are a mind to call 

 him/' said I. "He notices things which you don't see. 

 Watch the flight of that flock. See! They all flap their 

 wings in unison, and then all stop at once and sail, seem- 

 ing to follow the 'stroke oar.' Did you ever see any 

 other birds do that?" 



"I never noticed them. It is queer, though, how they 

 all work together that way. Don't geese fly like that?" 



"Oh, no; a goose is a heavy-bodied bird that couldn't 

 sail a minute up there; it's hard work for a goose from 

 the time it starts until it stops. If you watch the flight 

 of different kinds of ducks and the way they flock you 

 will soon be able to tell what they are. There goes a 

 dozen mallards; see how differently they fly from the 

 bluebills coming up behind them. I can't tell you the 

 difference, but you can see it." 



"Well, by jing! That's so. I thought all ducks flew 

 alike. I can tell ducks from crows by the way they fly, 

 but never noticed them as close as that. Henry, old boy, 

 you know a heap more than people think you do; they 

 haven't found you out yet." 



Henry made no reply to this, but suggested that it 

 was time to go ashore and make camp. It was quite a 

 job to find a camping spot on the island. It had been 

 well soaked in the spring freshets, and the lower leaves 

 of the underbrush were covered with dried sediment, 

 where they had been submerged. Henry knew these isl- 

 ands well, and led us to a knoll near a pond which was 

 dry in summer, but was filled now, and afforded a good 

 feeding place for ducks. We had hauled the boat well 

 up, and tied it fast in case the river should rise in the 

 night. We made a little bough house and a bed of dry 

 leaves, made a pot of coffee and ate supper before dark. 



As I remember the geography after an absence of 



