As I write these lines a remorseful recollection comes back upon me of overhanging cliffs, and of a bend in a swirling river, on whose rapid current a beautiful wounded heron--its right wing shattered--drifts helplessly round and round with the eddying water, each circle bringing it nearer in-shore to our feet.

I can see now its bright fearless eye, full of suffering, but yet unconquered: its slender neck proudly arched, and bearing up the small graceful head with its coronal or top-knot raised in defiance, as if to protest to the last against the cruel shot which had just been fired.

I was but a spectator, having merely wandered that far to look at my eel-lines, yet I felt as guilty as though my hand had pulled the trigger.

Just as the noble bird drifted to our feet,--for I could not help going down to the river's edge, where Pepper (our head shepherd) stood, looking very contrite,--it reared itself half out of the water, with a hissing noise and threatening bill, resolved to sell its liberty as dearly as it could; but the effort only spread a brighter shade of crimson on the waters surface for a brief moment, and then, with glazing eye and drooping crest, the dying creature turned over on its side and was borne helpless to our feet.

By the time Pepper extended his arm and drew it in, with the quaint apology, "I'm sorry I shot yer, old feller! I, am, indeed," the heron was dead; and that happened to be the only one I ever came across during my mountain life.