144 WILD FOWL SHOOTING. 



pass in perfect recklessness, the " wliewing " of their 

 set wings vibrating through the air. No need of blinds 

 now, no opportunity for calculating shots ; but we see 

 a dark meteor shoot hastily by, fire quickly, then listen 

 for the expected splash we know the duck will make 

 as it strikes the water. Unexpectedly one drops into 

 the water within ten feet of us. We dare not shoot, 

 knowing, if hit, the bird would be blown to pieces. We 

 splash the water, still unseen and unobserved by the 

 duck ; then we speak. At the sound of human voices 

 we see the water slightly ripple as the duck rises, a 

 dark shadow for an instant, and the bird seems to dis- 

 solve in the darkness. As we pick our way through' 

 the swamp you recognize your helplessness in this dark, 

 strange place. But guided and directe'd by our never- 

 failing friend — the North Star— we emerge after an 

 hour's hard and patient work on the Mississippi River. 

 We cross over to Camanche, from there take the 

 steamer for home, tired, hungry, and happy, well pleased 

 with our day's sport, and mentally deciding who among 

 our friends will be favored when we make a division 

 of our 112 ducks. 



