WILD LIFE ABOUT MY CABIN 



sees their dead bodies fall before his murderous fire. 

 He has only a dead duck, which, the chances are, he 

 will not find very toothsome at this season, while I 

 have a live duck with whistUng wings cleaving the 

 air northward, where, in some lake or river of Maine 

 or Canada, in late summer, I may meet him again 

 with his brood. It is so easy, too, to bag the game 

 with your eye, while your gun may leave you only a 

 feather or two floatiug upon the water. The duck 

 has wit, and its wit is as quick as, or quicker than, the 

 sportsman's gun. One day in spring I saw a gunner 

 cut down a duck when it had gained an altitude of 

 thirty or forty feet above the stream. At the report 

 it stopped suddenly, turned a somersault, and fell 

 with a splash into the water. It fell like a brick, and 

 disappeared like one; only a feather and a few bub- 

 bles marked the spot where it struck. Had it sunk ? 

 No; it had dived. It was probably winged, and in 

 the moment it occupied in falling to the water it had 

 decided what to do. It would go beneath the hunter, 

 since it could not escape above him; it could fly in 

 the water with only one wing, with its feet to aid it. 

 The gunner instantly set up a diUgent search in all 

 directions, up and down along the shores, peering 

 long and intently into the depths, thrusting his oar 

 into the weeds and driftwood at the edge of the wa- 

 ter, but no duck or sign of duck could he find. It 

 was as if the wounded bird had taken to the mimic 

 heaven that looked so sunny and real down there, 

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