XIII. SNOWY VISITORS. 



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^VER my table, as I write, is a 

 big snowy owl whose yel- 

 low eyes seem to be always 

 watching me, whatever I 

 do. Perhaps he is still 

 wondering at the curious 

 way in which I shot him. 

 One stormy afternoon, 

 a few winters ago, I was 

 black-duck shooting at 

 sundown, by a lonely salt 

 creek that doubled across 

 the marshes from Mad- 

 daket Harbor. In the shadow of a low ridge I had 

 built my blind among some bushes, near the freshest 

 water. In front of me a solitary decoy was splashing 

 about in joyous freedom after having been confined 

 all da)', quacking loudly at the loneliness of the place 

 and at being separated from her mate. Beside me, 

 crouched in the blind, my old dog Don was trying 

 his best to shiver himself warm without disturbing 



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