368 DUCK-SHOOTIlirG. 



too vide. There was a feather bed on it, a couch 

 we Eastern people do not always approve, but which 

 has its compensations of a cold night in a loosely 

 framed house. When I had once felt the insidious 

 wind creeping down my back where the clothes left 

 an open place for it, I learned the superiority of ex- 

 perience to theory. I slept, however, as only the 

 just and the sportsman sleep, my head dropping 

 into unconsciousness as it touched the pillow, and 

 never returning to it until the daylight penetrated 

 the open window with its welcome rays — sleep 

 without a dream, such as youth and health and 

 tired nature only know. 



Next morning I borrowed a saw and a hat<;het, 

 all the tools that the place boasted, and fashioned as 

 best I could some floats. These I carefully conceal- 

 ed in my boat, and said nothing about them. After 

 breakfast, when we pushed off, I took my course 

 alone. I went pretty well up into the marsh, in fact 

 as far as in my ignorance of the intricacies of the 

 swamp I dared. I chose a point between two creeks, 

 and going carefully into my blind from behind, so 

 as not to break it down in front, a precaution which 

 I observed most of the sportsmen neglected, I con- 

 cealed myself, and waited the course of events. 

 Mere waiting never suited my views, but on this oc- 

 casion there was nothing else to do. It was some 

 time before I killed a duck, and I was wondering 

 whether I should have any opportunity to try my 

 floats, Avhen a solitary mallard came within long 

 range, and I was so fortunate as to bag him. 



