However, as the sun was about to sink, the birds began to arrive, at first one or two at a time, then more rapidly and in larger flocks, till at last it was one steady stream and whirr of wings. Faster than we could load, faster than we could shoot, or could have shot had we had fifty guns, from all quarters and of all kinds they streamed past; now the sharp whistle of the teal, then the rush of the mallard, sometimes high over our heads, at others darting close beside us; by ones, by twos, by dozens, by hundreds, crowded together in masses or stretched in open lines, in all variety of ways, but in one uninterrupted flight. Such shooting rarely blesses the fortunate sportsman; we drove down our charges as best we could, sometimes having one barrel loaded or half loaded, sometimes the other, oftener neither, when we were interrupted with such glorious chances; our nerves, eyes, and muscles were on the strain, and to this day we have only to regret that we did not then possess a breech-loader. The air was alive with birds; the rustle of their wings made one continuous hum; the heavy flocks approached and passed us with a sound like the gusty breeze of an autumn night rattling through the dying leaves. When the sun fled and darkness seemed to spring up around us, they appeared in the most unexpected and bewildering manner; at one time from out of the glorious brilliancy of the western sky, then from the deep gloom of the opposite quarter, darting across us or plunging down into the weeds near by. Our birds lay where they fell, and when the approaching night bade us depart, we retrieved sixty-seven--the result of about one hour’s shooting--doubtless losing numbers that were not noticed, or which, being wounded, escaped. Had we not been awkward from a year’s idleness, or had we shot as the professionals of Long Island and each used a breech-loader, I could hardly say how many we might not have killed. As it was, the sport was wonderful, and the result sufficient to satisfy our ambition. We lost no time in escaping from the weeds into the channel-ways, whither the open-water ducks--the red-heads and canvas-backs--had preceded us, and were still directing their flight; and then started for the few dim trees that we knew surrounded the club-house, rousing in our course immense flocks of the worthless American coot, _Fulica Americana_, the mud-hen of the natives. The wharf reached, the boats landed, supper over, the birds counted and registered, the social pipe illumined, and we gathered in a circle round the fire of our parlor for improving conversation. “How many birds have we killed this year?” inquired a member. “The record shows a goodly total of 2,351,” replied the Secretary, turning to the register; “almost as many already as the entire return of last season, during which we only killed 2,908.” “And the better varieties seem this year to be more numerous.”