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 
