t of the duck tribe, who generally, at a
single hoarse "Quack!" from their leader, will cease their antics in
lake or stream, and disappear like a skimming breeze before a sportsman
can get a fair shot at them.

For a quarter of an hour Dol Farrar sat by this forest pond engaged in
the cheerful occupation of "booming himself," as his friend Cyrus would
have said. He told himself that he had made a pretty smart beginning,
not alone in shooting a brace of black ducks, but in successfully
following a difficult trail on his fourth day in the woods. Henceforth,
he thought, there would be little reason for him to dread the unknown in
this great wilderness.

He reclothed his legs, gathered the stiffening claws of the defunct
quackers in his left hand, picked up his empty "ole fuzzee," which had
done such good service despite its age, and set forth on his return to
camp.

Retracing his steps along the bank, after some searching he found the
beginning of the trail, and started along it with a know-it-all,
cheerful confidence in the little bit of wood-lore which he had
acquired. Hence he now found it considerably more difficult to follow
the spotted trees. His brain was excited and preoccupied; and when once
in fancied security he suffered his eyes and thoughts to stray for a
minute from the trail, every unfamiliar woodland sight and sound tempted
them to wander farther.

First it was an old fox, which poked its sharp, inquisitive nose out of
a patch of undergrowth near at hand. Dol uttered a mad "Whoop-ee!" and
heedlessly dashed off a few steps in pursuit. Reynard whisked his brush
as much as to say, "You can't get the better of me, stranger!" and
defiantly trotted away.

Recovering his senses, the boy managed to recover the trail too, and was
keeping to it carefully when a second temptation beset him. A chattering
squirrel, seated on the low bough of a maple-tree, with his fore paws
against his white breast, his eyes like twinkling beads, and his
restless little head playing bo-peep with the intruding boy, began to
scold the latter for venturing into his forest playground.

Dol's first thought was full of delighted interest. His second was a
sanguinary one; namely, that a pair of ducks would only be one meal for
four campers who were "camp-hungry," and that Uncle Eb had spoken of
squirrels as "fust-rate eatin'." He handled his gun uncertainly,
deliberating whether or not he would load it, and try a shot at the
bright-ey