WILD FOWL SHOOTING.

CHAPTER I.

REVERIES.

"The childhood shows the man,
As morning shows the day."

WHEN Thomas Hood wrote those beautiful lines, "I remember, I remember, the place where I was born," he had passed the days of his youth, and was in the bloom of a vigorous manhood. Of the many beautiful poems, emanating from his fertile brain, this one must have afforded him the greatest pleasure in writing, and no doubt was the one he loved best. It not only came from his brain, but sprang from the deepest recesses of his heart. "He remembered, he remembered, the place where he was born." Why did he remember it? Because, after years had rolled over his head, changing. the golden hair of youth into the sombre hue of manhood, streaking with gray the hair of his later years, he could look back into the past, ruminate over the joys and sorrows of his life, and recall with pleasure and gratification the scenes of his early childhood. And who cannot?

I have in my mind's eye at this moment, a youth of

twelve summers, a laughing, romping, rosy-cheeked lad, overflowing with animal spirits, his bright, blue eyes and smiling face an ever welcome sight to his companions. Whistling and singing all the livelong day. His father, distinguished for his eminent legal abilities, forgot all business cares, and ever indulgent, became a boy again when with his romping son. Brothers and sisters had he. His home stood on the hillside, and a happy one it was, made so by fraternal and filial love. That this boy should learn to love field sports, the dog and gun, is not a matter of surprise, as his father was passionately fond of them.

We see him in the month of June, that month of rosiest hue, when all nature is dressed in holiday attire, roaming through field and meadow, over hills and val leys; or, dreamily sitting on the bank of the murmuring brook, his wandering thoughts far away, as he list ens to the carol of bright plumaged birds, his nostrils filled with the delicate odor of blossoming flowers, his eyes entranced by the surpassing beauty of Nature everywhere around him, in the heavens above, in the earth below.

The air, laden with the perfume of flowers,
Delights his senses; he notes not the hours.
Bright butter-cups, daisies, sweet violets,
Lure him on, and he forgets

"Bob White,"

School, playmates, joys, disappointment,
And rambles amid Nature in sweet content.
He hears strange sounds. There in his sight,
A mottled bird calls to him, "Bob White,"
"Bob White," he says, whistling from his post,
Then looks at the boy, as if he were lost,
And wonders what he is doing here alone,

So young, so small, so far from home.
"Coo-Coo-" is uttered by the turtle dove,
As she mournfully calls her truant love,
Then flying and alighting on the topmost limb,
Silently looks down and watches him.

Walking slowly, tramping wearily,

He hears the brown thrush, singing cheerily,
Sitting, flitting, before him all the way,
Bobbing, peering, singing his roundelay.
Weary with walking, he wanders in quest

Of some friendly tree, beneath its shade to rest;
Picks off the flowers, holds them in his hand,
Looks around, sees more, at his command;
He hears the rippling of a babbling brook,
And sees it concealed in a hidden nook,
The traveller would have passed it by,
But for its welcoming, gladsome cry.
Listening to the lark, the robin's matin,
He sees a flower, dressed in golden satin;
Places it with the others, red, pink, and green,
Says: "Many a flower is born to blush unseen,"
But this one; a lady's slipper; is so rare,
It shall not, 66

waste its fragrance on the desert air".
The waning day bids him he must start,
Regretfully sighing, he rises, lingers, then departs.
In after years, he often recalls these hours,

Passed with Nature, birds, and sweet smelling flowers.

Who, among his young companions, could imitate the ery of the quail, the duck, the jay, the goose, the crow, better than he? could send the shaft further, or hit with big headed arrow the penny oftener?

And then, when the happy and proud owner of his first gun, a light single-barrel muzzle-loader! In my imagination, I can see him now, gun in hand, a brass cap box filled with percussion caps in his vest pocket, his coat pockets stuffed with paper for wadding; around his neck, suspended by a string at his right side, an old vanilla bottle, filled with powder, while hanging at his left, another bottle half full of shot; walking first by his side, then behind him, are his comrades, junior in years, his body guard and retrievers. Thus he marched forth on an October day searching for quail. At intervals, imitating the call of the bird by whistling, while occasionally, one of his younger companions would laugh out in childish glee, rolling his eyes and opening wide his mouth, while ear-splitting notes issue from his throat,

"Oh-ee-he, Oh-ee-he." Great days and happy ones were they for that boy. Then again we see him a few years later; he now has a double-barrelled gun; his accoutrements are also changed. Now he hunts on horseback, riding a pony, known for her gentle disposition. Approaching a slough, he hears the flutter of wings, over his head, and a little to the left is a flock of ten mallards. He fires at the leader, and kills the third one. No soliloquizing for him; it doesn't enter his head that he made a clean miss, but he regrets the fact that his gun scatters so much on birds, when it makes such an excellent target on paper.

He sees ducks lighting in a pond. How well he knows that hole! Often and often has he wormed his lithe body toward that spot to meet his reward by knocking over a mallard, sometimes a pair of them. As he crawls along, he stops for breath, then peers silently over the waving grass, trying to catch a glimpse of the ducks. He looks back at the pony, while she, gentle, faithfull Nell, untethered, obedient to her master and companion's call waits for him, and nibbles and munches away at the succulent bottom grass. Those were the happy days of his young life. No cares, no responsibilities, nothing to mar the mirror of his boyhood days. All was with him unalloyed pleasure and happiness. To be sure, he was vexed with school, especially when the wild pigeon was seeking its northern home; but the vexation was borne with complacency, because he knew that after school time was his, and the flight of the pigeon would continue until the mantle of darkness was thrown over the earth, until after the going down of the setting sun. We see him in the