THE SUMMER DUCK. 215 
on the woodland banks of the streams and pools they 
love to frequent. And this reminds me of a little sketch, 
illustrative of their habits, taken down almost verbatim, 
from the lips of a right good fellow, and at that time a 
right good sportsman also; though now, alas! the un- 
timely loss of the inestimable blessing of eyesight has 
robbed him, among other sources of enjoyment, of that 
favorite and innocent pastime—the forest chase: 
“ Are there ‘many Wood Ducks about this ‘season, 
Tom?” asked Forester, affecting to be perfectly care- 
less and indifferent to all that had passed. “Did you 
kill these yourself?” 
“There was a sight on them a piece back, but they’re 
gittin’ scase—pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot 
these down by Aunt Sally’s big spring-hole a Friday. 
I'd been a lookin’ round, you see, to find where the quail 
kept afore you came up here—for Pd a been expectin’ 
you a week and better—and I’d got in quite late, toward 
sundown, with an outsidin’ bevy, down by the cedar 
swamp, and druv ‘them off into the big bog meadows, 
below Sugarloaf, and T[’d killed quite a bunch on them 
—sixteen, I reckon, Archer; and there wasn’t but 
eighteen when I lit on em’—and it was gittin’ pretty 
well dark when I came to the big spring, and little Dash 
was worn dead out, and I was tired, and hot, and thun- 
derin’ thirsty, so I sets down aside the outlet where the 
spring water comes in good and cool, and I was mixkin’ 
up a nice, long drink in the big glass we hid last sum- 
