as then; at that time, I used to stand, gazing up to them in silent adoration, and wonder if those lines were lines of care, or the effects of wintry winds, or old age. See! how the frost-tipped leaves tremble, as the slight breeze causes the outward limbs to bend to you and me. They are their silent sentinels welcoming us to their quiet home. Do you suppose they know me? They surely ought to; for they see me every year, sometimes semi-annually, often weekly. That old hickory ought to remember me; for I once killed a fox squirrel, in its highest crotch; and this great oak tree too; for years ago, I shot on that gnarled limb, straight from its body, a large white owl, as it sat, half asleep, half awake, blinking in the mid-day sun. When I get among these trees, my spirit prompts me to say:

"Trees of the forest and open field,

Have you no sense of being? Does the air,
The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass
In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves
All unenjoyed? When on your wintry sleep the sun
Shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring?
And when the glorious springtime comes at last,
Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds,
And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds ?"

'Tis now the middle of the afternoon, and the shortening day warns us to move on. The silent trees we were admiring, fade from view, hidden by the low birch, willows, and maple we are now passing through. We are in the low lands; and seem at times, to brush through the lower limbs of the trees as we glide along. Ducks are now jumping up all round us. From beneath the branches of the birch and from behind the maple, while the willow flashes appear to be full of them. It is not difficult to kill them now, and we improve the opportunity.

It is like going from darkness into day-light, when we suddenly, and to you unexpectedly, come out of the deep woods into the broad water of Rice Lake. There are hunters before us. We see their decoys, and cheerily greeting them, leave the most noted resort of the whole trip in the possession of strangers. Why care we? just below us is Turkey Slough, where from time immemorial, year in and year out, ducks have been killed by the hundreds. The day is fast disappearing. We place out our decoys in a likely place, and kill the ducks in that manner. At times, a pair or

a single one alights just out of reach. Silently and stealthily we emerge from our hiding place and the floating brush pile is transformed into a fiery mass; and we gather the dead, and once more seek the protecting willows.

Thus the day slips along. Ducks come in at night by thousands, the constant booming of guns does not drive them away. On the contrary, it seems to act as a signal, pointing out to the stragglers where the majority are. Satiated with decoy shooting, we scull along the banks, the willows, in the shallow water, the submerged ground, the grassy knolls where seeds are found, the little patches of smart-weed ridges, where the acorns are dropping into the water with a sullen. "plunk," and then, into the broad deep water,―securing game everywhere.

You feel tired? Indeed! Lay your gun listlessly down, and declare you won't fire another shot! no matter what comes along! You bring your hand to your eyes, wishing for a moment to shut out the sight of constant flying ducks, that will come before you. "Ah-unk! Ah-unk!" At this well-known sound,

your gun is grabbed quick as thought, you draw yourself closely down in the bottom of the boat, and scarcely breathe. It's all right! He hasn't seen you; but comes slowly along, his great gray body, conspicuous in the light of the setting sun. Steadily and regularly, his wide wings work up and down. He's over you! Coolly and calmly you rise to a sitting position. You draw aim on that black head, so plainly marked with a broad band of white; fire! and with a last expiring"honk," a Canada goose lies dead before you. A thrilling sense of pleasure darts through you; the tired feeling is gone. You are filled with new vigor; for you feel that at the last moment, at the opportune time, you have crowned a perfect day's sport with the most longed-for dessert.

The sun has gone down, the twilight is beginning to appear in the East; the shooting has ceased, the sky is brilliantly reflected in the west by the slow retreating sun; then it grows dim, a gray film spreads all around us. We start for home.

"Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sombre livery all things clad;
Silence accompanied, for beast and bird'
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale."

The dark horizon is relieved of its blackness by the still darker line of the island trees. Stars begin to creep out from the distant sky, twinkling at you merrily; then one shoots swiftly with flashing tail across the bosom of the broad sky. The boat seems to almost fly past receding banks and trees. We are now at the last island, called the "Tow Head," just four miles from. home. Deep bluffs extend along both sides of the river, separating Iowa and Illinois. Fire off your gun! Why?