THE CLAPPER RAIL. 169 



or paddles during high tides. It is by day, however, that they are usually 

 shot, and as this kind of sport is exceedingly pleasant, I will attempt to 

 describe it. 



About Charleston, in South Carolina, the shooting of Marsh-hens takes 

 place from September to February, a few days in each month during the 

 spring-tides. A light skiff or canoe is procured, the latter being much pre- 

 ferable, and paddled by one or two experienced persons, the sportsman 

 standing in the bow, and his friend, if he has one with him, taking his 

 station in the stern. At an early hour they proceed to the marshes, amid 

 many boats containing parties on the same errand. There is no lack of 

 shooting-grounds, for every creek of salt-water swarms with Marsh-hens. 

 The sportsman who leads has already discharged his barrels, and on either 

 side of his canoe a bird has fallen. As the boat moves swiftly towards them, 

 more are raised, and although he may not be ready, the safety of the bird is 

 in imminent jeopardy, for now from another bark double reports are heard 

 in succession. The tide is advancing apace, the boats merely float along, 

 and the birds, driven from place to place, seek in vain for safety. Here, on 

 a floating mass of tangled weeds, stand a small group side by side. The 

 gunner has marked them, and presently nearly the whole covey is prostrated. 

 Now, onward to that great bunch of tall grass all the boats are seen to steer; 

 shot after shot flies in rapid succession; dead and dying lie all around on the 

 water; the terrified survivors are trying to save their lives by hurried flight; 

 but their efforts are unavailing, — one by one they fall, to rise no more. It 

 is a sorrowful sight, after all: see that poor thing gasping hard in the agonies 

 of death, its legs quivering with convulsive twitches, its bright eyes fading 

 into glazed obscurity. In a few hours, hundreds have ceased to breathe the 

 breath of life; hundreds that erst revelled in the joys of careless existence, 

 but which can never behold their beloved marshes again. The cruel sports- 

 man, covered with mud and mire, drenched to the skin by the splashing of 

 the paddles, his face and hands besmeared with powder, stands amid the 

 wreck which he has made, exultingly surveys his slaughtered heaps, and 

 with joyous feelings returns home with a cargo of game more than enough 

 for a family thrice as numerous as his own. How joyful must be the con- 

 gratulations of those which have escaped, without injury to themselves or 

 their relatives! With what pleasure, perhaps, have some of them observed 

 the gun of one of their murderers, or the powder-flask^of another, fall over- 

 board ! How delighted have they been to see a canoe overturned by an 

 awkward movement, and their enemies struggling to reach the shore, or 

 sticking fast in the mud! Nor have the mink and racoon come off well, for 

 notwithstanding the expertness of the former at diving, and the cunning of 



