imbibed, so to speak, an immense quantity; for, as in opium-eating, those who begin by effort end by taking in with ease. There was something else so very characteristic of old Philadelphia that I will not pass it by. In the fall of the year the reed-bird, which is quite as good as the ortolan of Italy, and very much like it (I prefer the reed-bird), came in large flocks to the marshes and shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill. Then might be seen a quaint and marvellous sight of men and boys of all ages and conditions, with firearms of every faculty and form, followed by dogs of every degree of badness, in all kinds of boats, among which the _bateau_ of boards predominated, intermingled with an occasional Maryland dug-out or poplar canoe. Many, however, crept on foot along the shore, and this could be seen below the Navy Yard even within the city limits. Then, as flock after flock of once bobolinks and now reed-birds rose or fell in flurried flight, there would be such a banging, cracking, and barking as to suggest a South American revolution aided by blood-hounds. That somebody in the _melee_ now and then got a charge of shot in his face, or that angry parties in dispute over a bird sometimes blazed away at one another and fought _a l'outrance_ in every way, "goes without saying." Truly they were inspiriting sights, and kept up the martial valour, aided by frequent firemen's fights, which made Philadelphians so indomitable in the Rebellion, when, to the amazement of everybody, our Quaker city manifested a genius or love for hard fighting never surpassed by mortals. There were, of course, some odd episodes among the infantry or gunners on foot, and one of these was so well described by my brother Henry in a poem, that I venture to give it place. REED-BIRDING. Two men and a bull-dog ugly, Two guns and a terrier lame; They'd better stick out in the marsh there, And set themselves up for game. But no; I mark by the cocking Of that red-haired Paddy's eye, He's been "reeding" too much for you, sir, Any such game to try. "Now, Jamie, ye divil, kape dark there, And hould the big bull-dog in; There's a bloody big crowd of rade-birds, That nade a pepperin'!" _Ker-rack_! goes the single barrel, _Flip-boong_! roars the old Queen Anne; There's a Paddy stretched out in the mud-hole, A kicked-over, knocked-down man. "Och, Jamie, ye shtupid crature, Sure ye're the divil's son; How many fingers' load, thin, Did ye putt in this d---d ould gun?" "How many fingers, be jabers? I nivir putt in a wan; Did ye think I'd be afther jammin' Me fingers into a gun?" "Well, give me the powder, Jamie." "The powder! as sure as I'm born, I put it all into yer musket, For I'd nivir a powder-horn!"