It is a rainy day, and nothing has occurred of a local nature, that is,
nothing of a hair standing nature, so we will just spoil a few sheets of
paper relating, in a Sunday School book style, the circumstances of an
excursion after woodcock, the other day, indulged in by W.C. Root, the
Wisconsin amateur Bogardus, Jennings McDonald, Captain of a breech-loading
steamboat, and the subscriber. In the first place, it may be well to state
that the woodcock, or "Timber Doodle," as Prof. Agassiz calls it, is a
game bird. We know it is a game bird, because they charge a dollar apiece
for them in New York. The meat is about as sweet as deceased cow's liver,
but they are worth a dollar apiece. The "Timber Doodle" is a patriotic
bird, because he gets ripe on the 4th of July. He is about the size of a
doughnut, with a long bill, like a lawyer.
We took passage per skiff at twelve o'clock. If there was one drawback, it
was the fact that the oar-locks of the boat had been mislaid. After
consuming an hour in not finding them, Frank Hatch became discouraged at
seeing us lay around the levee, so he tied the oars on with tarred rope
and we got off, three of us besides the other dogs. The water was so high
that we crossed Barron's island, only having to get out and pull the boat
over two or three sand-bars and a raft or two.
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