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Hardscrabble; or, the fall of Chicago. a tale of Indian warfare by John Richardson
page 37 of 239 (15%)
As the latter puffed away with a vigor that proved either
a preoccupied mind, or extreme gratification with the
weed, he cast his eyes carelessly down the stream, where
a large description of duck, called by the French natives
of the country, the cou rouge, from the color of their
necks, were disporting themselves as though nothing in
the shape of a fire arm was near them--now diving--now
rising on their feet, and shaking their outstretched
wings, now chasing each other in limited circles, and
altogether so apparently emboldened by their immunity
from interruption, as to come close to the bank, at a
distance of little more than fifty yards from the spot
where he sat.

"It's very ridiculous," he at length remarked, pouring
forth at the same time, an unusual volume of smoke, and
watching the curling eddies as they rose far above his
head--"it's very ridiculous, I say, the captin's order
that we sha'nt fire. Look at them ducks--how they seem
to know all about it, too!"

"By gosh!" said another, "I've a good notion to fetch my
musket, and have a slap into them. Shall I, corporal?"

"Certainly not, Green," was the answer. "If it was known
in the Fort I had permitted any of the party to fire, I
should be broke, if I did'nt get picketed for my pains,
and none of us would ever get out again."

"No great harm in that, either," said the man who had
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