I was the only one present who did not clearly comprehend the announcement.
It was soon explained to me. The well-known migratory birds of America—the passenger-pigeons—had arrived among some beechwood that grew upon a ridge in the rear of the plantation. There making pause in their irregular flight, they were filling their crops with the scattered mast.
Small as was the game, and tame the sport of pigeon-shooting, it is one that can not be obtained every day, like the chase of the squirrel. The birds stay but a short time in any particular place—excepting in those grand roosts that are few and far between. Every one can not enjoy the sport of destroying them wholesale at their roosting-places; but in the autumn of the year, those who live in the neighborhood of beechen woods may have a chance to shoot them.
In a region where they but rarely show themselves, even the grand bear-hunter will not disdain to spend a day or two in popping away at pigeons.
Such a district was that in which lay the plantation of our host.
At the word "pigeons," Henry Woodley sprung to his gun, calling upon us to imitate his example.
We could not do otherwise than respond to the call, and all three started forth—our host, Bradley and myself.
Miss Woodley was, for the time, left alone.
CHAPTER XII.