jacksnipe--big, fat, thick-breasted, meaty looking birds.

My companion and myself returned to our blinds. The duck flight during
the fore part of the afternoon was exceedingly light. I managed to land,
among others, a beautiful canvasback drake. Shortly afterwards I stopped
as fine a Mallard drake as I ever saw. This was the only Mallard killed
on the trip.

In the gathering shadows of the coming night we drove back to the
Springs. Seven guns had killed 118 ducks, fifty of them canvasback.
There was a fine sprinkling of sprig, redhead, widgeon, plenty of teal,
bluebills and some spoonbills, all fine, fat birds. Then there were the
jacksnipe.

Tired and happy we dined. Until retiring time, we lived again the sport
of the day. When we sought our beds, sleep came quickly, and I do not
think any of us turned over until it was time to get up. We had packed
our belongings, taken on gasoline and breakfasted, and started homeward
a little after 7 o'clock.

We visited another section of the country known to one of our party, and
fell in with some mountain pigeons, and in a couple of hours managed to
kill sixty-eight of them. Talk about shooting! Oh, Mama! How those
pigeons could fly! And pack away lead! No bird I ever saw could equal
them in that particular.

Even at close range, a well-centered bird would, when hard hit, pull
himself together as his feathers flew in the breeze, and sail away out
into some mountain side, quite out of reach of the hunter, undoubtedly
to die and furnish food for the buzzards or coyotes. We had to take