WET, WEARY, AND FATIQGUED. 265 
In Central Illinois, a thousand miles or more from the 
scene of my last mishap, I have had wonderful mallard- 
shooting, so will attempt to describe one of my fortunate 
essays on a November evening. -The wind was eminently 
suited for the purpose of exhibiting a large show of birds; 
it being dark, stormy, and threatening, with a rapid de- 
crease in the temperature, strongly indicative of frost or 
snow. In truth, if I had made a selection, I could scarcely 
have chosen better adapted weather. After a tiresome and 
unprofitable day, we found ourselves back at the requisite 
station, wet, weary, and fatigued, and not by any means in 
the best of spirits; still, I did not wish to be the proposer 
of an adjournment of my promised exhibition, and my 
friend felt placed upon his mettle, lest he should appear to 
suffer more from his long tramp than myself, or indicate 
less capacity for enduring the fatigues of the hunting-field. 
How often, if we could read one another’s internal feelings, 
should we find that external appearances are only assumed, 
and that the companion who ostensibly looks as fresh and 
capable of traveling for hours as he was at the time of 
starting, is suffering from extreme lassitude and disinclina- 
tion to more exertion, only he is restrained from confessing 
his weakness by a certain amour propre, and repugnance 
to acknowledge himself beaten; at least, I speak from my 
own experience, and I believe that the majority of men are 
similarly constituted. If men would but give the same at- 
tention, the same pertinacious assiduity to business affairs 
that are bestowed by its devotees on field-sports, it can not 
be doubted that their fortune in amassing wealth would be 
equal to their success in filling game-bags. 
As the sun dipped in the western horizon, or as near 
as possible to that time—murky, dark, threatening clouds 
preventing the sun from being seen—we entered the wet, 
marshy margin which bounded our future scene of opera- 
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