a bird, who is out of sight in a moment;
so is the dog, who indulges in an animated chase. You shout yourself
hoarse; at length succeed in catching dog, and try to thresh him with
decayed sticks. A little while after, dog comes to a point again. This
time he stands beautifully. You walk slowly up, trembling with excitement,
both barrels cocked. Why don't the bird get up? You glance inquiringly
around, and at length discern a wood-turtle fast asleep near the stump of
a tree. Then, if an irascible man, you curse. So passes the day. Now and
then a bird springs; off fly both of your barrels, aimed at vacancy, and
hurling showers of No. 8 into space; and you arrive at home late in the
afternoon, sore-footed from much travel and stiffness of boots, and alas!
without a feather except a small quail which your dog caught in his mouth.

No more shooting? Try fishing then. Sit all day on a rock watching your
float, or cork, or _dobber_, as the Dutch boys call it, dance merrily over
the waves, occasionally disappearing under the surface, when the hook
catches a weed. Does not even this suit you? Then, dear friend, buy a boat
of from four to six tons burthen, properly rigged and ballasted; also buy
a red shirt, a small low-crowned straw hat, some tar to smear over your
hands, and learn the first stanza of 'The sea! the sea!' to make every
thing seem more nautical and ship-shape. Hoist jib and mainsail, and
venture out. After you have drifted a mile or two, it will fall a dead
calm, and the boat (Gazelle? Wave? Gull?) will float two or three hours,
the sun flashing back from the glassy surface of the water, burning your
face to the color of bricks, and almost frying the eyes out of your head.
Then is the time to sing 'The sea! the sea!' and to take some Monongahela
to still the qualmishness you begin to experience. At length the wind
rises, and your boat, after many _yawings_, dashes away before it.
Suddenly, without any voluntary or visible agency on your part, the
main-boom sweeps from one side to the other, carrying your hat overboard
in its passage, and dipping the gunwale deep under water. Agitated by this
significant gesture, you steer straight for the wharf. In attempting to
round-to, the bowsprit comes in contact with the piles and renounces its
allegiance to the bow. The boat drifts away from the landing, and finally
deposits you high and dry on the beach.

What! Disgusted with this, too? Then take our advice, and like a
rea