As the years pass and no satisfactory explanation has been advanced, the subject fairly nettles the thoughtful lover of nature. Superficial humane zealots as usual credit the trapshooters with wanton slaughter, which is positively silly when it is remembered that a single flock, one of a hundred that passed in a day, would supply pigeons for trapshooting for several years. That disease exterminated them is not impossible, and is by far more reasonable than the trap or net explanation, twenty-five or more years of guessing having failed to locate or account for the birds. The suggestion here offered (for what it is worth), which was brought about by a dream, may, if followed up, give a clew to the whereabouts or fate of the birds which sportsmen of the last generation will ever remember as the most graceful and skillful flyers known. The dream above mentioned need not be given in detail, nor could it be at this time; however, the writer dreamed of a pow-wow with a venerable Indian who, when asked what had become of the pigeons, stated, to quote him literally (as dreamed), that “Pigeon heap d——n fool, fly in big water [meaning the Gulf of Mexico], no come back.” I am without any element of superstition, but this dream and Indian affirmation have haunted me for months. I have just returned from the Gulf coast, where, strange as it may seem, the dream has in a measure been confirmed as follows: Having waded through a slough several times in quest of jack snipe, which were there in large numbers, and having killed and bagged many, I came to an inviting log near the edge of the swamp, which made a good resting place for a tired shooter. While seated there making up my mind whether I should quit shooting or go back after the snipe again, an old negro driving an antiquated mule attached to a creaking, ramshackle wagon with dished wheels, drove up. A few pieces of webbing, some chains for traces, and a bridle and reins of common clothesline made a perfectly harmonious outfit. “Whoa, Jake!” commanded the old man as he rolled up to my resting place. “Good mo’nin’, sah. You all been spo’tin’ some dis mo’nin’.” I assured him I had bagged a lot of jacks. “I dun hear pow’ful lots o’ gun firin’ as I come along back.” His aged and gray head was set with bright eyes, and his old face beamed with good nature. I decided to do some of the questioning, so I started in with an inquiry as to whether Jake, who stood within reach of my seat on the log, had been or was a kicker. His owner assured me he was gentle and “never was a fool mule.” “How long have you lived here, uncle?” I inquired. “I don’t live here; I lives up dis road ’bout fo’ miles.” “Yes, but how long have you lived in Texas, or near the Gulf?” I asked. “Good Lo’d! I dun always been here,” and, as if to emphasize the statement, his old face wrinkled more than usual. “Do you remember the pigeons, years ago?” I asked. “I shore does, sah.” “What became of them?” I asked, recalling the dream.