Oh! how often have I silently climbed out of my window and stealthily crept down the ladder which passed it, long and long before the dawn, with my fowling piece upon my shoulder, and by the fitful moonlight wended, half scared, my way through the rustic roads and lanes, leaping the fences, saturated to the middle with the night-dew from the long wet grass, the stars twinkling in the heavens, as the wild scudding clouds passed o’er them, and nothing to break the perfect stillness. How often at such times have I stopped and stared at some suspicious object looming up before me, till, mustering courage, I have cocked my piece and advancing at a trail, discovered in the object of my terror, a dozing horse, or patient ox, or cow quietly ruminating at the road side. How often have I sprung suddenly aside, my hair standing on end, as a stealthy fox or prowling dog rushed by me into the bushes, and felt my blood tingle to my very fingers’ ends, as some bird of prey raised himself with an uneasy scream and settled again upon the tree tops, as I passed beneath. How I used to screw my courage up, as with long strides and studiously averted eyes, I hurried past the dreaded grave yard; and as I came upon the borders of the winding creek, and walked splashing through its ponds and shallows, how would I crouch and scan through the dim light to catch a glimpse of some stray flock of ducks or teal, that might be feeding upon its sedges. How would I bend and stoop as I saw them delightfully huddled in a cluster, till getting near I would find an envious bend of long distance to be measured before I could get a shot. How patiently would I creep along—and stop—and crouch—and stop, till getting near, and nearer—a sudden slump into some unseen bog or ditch would be followed by a quick “quack”—“quack”—and off they’d go—far out of reach of shot or call. But all would be forgotten when I reached the old Negro’s hut. There a hot corn cake and broiled fish or bird, was always on the coals to stay my appetite—and then off we’d sally to the Bar to lie in wait for the wild fowl as they came over it at day break. The snipe in little clouds would start up with their sharp “pewhit” before us, as we measured the broad hard flats left damp and smooth by the receding tide; the Kildare with querulous cry would wing away his flight, and the great gaunt cranes, looming, spectre-like, in the moonlight, sluggishly stalking onwards, would clumsily lift their long legs in silence as we advanced, and fan themselves a little farther from our proximity.