“Another invariable rule, in crawling upon ducks, is always, if possible, to get to leeward of them; for although I am firmly of opinion that they do not wind you like deer, as some suppose, yet their hearing is most acute. I have seen instances of this that I could hardly otherwise have credited. One day I got within about sixty yards of three ducks asleep upon the shore; the wind was blowing very strong, direct from me to them, a thick hedge forming my ambuscade. The ground was quite bare beyond this hedge, so I was obliged to take the distant shot through it. In making the attempt, I rustled one of the twigs—up went the three heads to the full stretch; but when I had remained quiet for about five minutes, they again placed their bills under their wings. Upon a second trial, the slight noise was unfortunately repeated—again the birds raised their heads; but this time they were much longer upon the stretch, and seemed more uneasy. Nothing now remained but to try again: my utmost caution, however, was unavailing—the birds rose like rockets. I never hesitate concealing myself to windward of the spot where I expect ducks to pitch, feeling confident that, unless I move, they will not find me out. I have often had them swimming within twenty-five yards of me, when I was waiting for three or four in line, the wind blowing direct from me to them, without perceiving, by any signs, their consciousness of an enemy’s vicinity.” Macwheedle himself, by all that’s impudent! Nay, then, it is full time for us to take our farewell of Mr Colquhoun, and address ourselves to our public duty. We shall meet the honourable candidate in that style of diplomacy which was imparted to us by old Talleyrand, and in which, we flatter ourselves, we have no equal, with the exception, perhaps, of the accomplished Dunshunner. That gay individual is, doubtless, at this moment wooing some bashful constituency—we trust with prospects of better success than attended his last adventure. When the elections are over, we shall lose not a moment in hastening to the Highlands—there, by glen and river, loch, moor, and mountain, to obliterate all memory of the heat and hurry of the hustings; and we hope, before the year is over, to hear from the lips of many of our friends, who are now looking forward with anxiety to their first sporting season, an acknowledgment of the benefit which they have derived from the practical lessons of our author. Now, then, for an interview with the too insinuating Macwheedle. MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON. BOOK XI. CONTINUED—CHAPTER XVII.