n a Monday, in the month of November, we started on our annual trip to the marshes of North Carolina. We left Washington armed and equipped, and met, at Norfolk, four of our party who had left New York the previous week. They had been spending a few days in Princess Anne County, quail shooting, where they had labored hard with no success to speak of—the birds were few, the ground heavy, and they quit that locality, perfectly willing never to return to it. They arrived in Norfolk heartily sick of that excursion. We got the traps all together and made a start for our favorite sporting grounds; where the merest tyro may do satisfactory execution, and come in at night with a keen appetite for the next day's sport.

While waiting for the quail party to return, we strolled through the old city of Norfolk, with its quaint houses and curiously-winding streets, and wandered into the old-time burial place surrounding St. Paul's church.

This is one of the oldest places of worship in the United States; it was erected before the Revolution, and is built of imported brick, laid alternately, red and black. The figures, giving the date of erection, 1739, are rudely worked into the wall—projecting far enough to make the design perfectly plain. When the town was burnt by the British, 1775, only the walls of this sacred edifice were left standing. The enemy relieved it of a very fine marble baptismal font, and also of the communion plate, which were carried to Scotland. On the gable end of the building, still fast in the wall, may be seen a cannon ball which was fired from the British ship, Liverpool. The church stands in the customary grave yard of those days, and contains the remains of persons interred as early as 1700. Near the door stands the tomb-stone of Col. Samuel Boush, who gave the land on which this house of worship stands. Many of his relatives also rest there. Some of the stones, marking places of interment, are covered with mosses and creeping plants; the inscriptions on others are almost obliterated by the ravages of time; still others have fallen or been broken, and now lean in every direction over the last earthly resting-place of those who thought to tell coming generations who reposed beneath. This is one of the weaknesses of mankind, but it is vain.

Let them pile up costly and lofty monuments—reaching heavenward; let the artist cut their names and virtues deep into the enduring granite; let the mechanic, with all his skill, set the foundations, yet the lettering will perish and the stone will crumble. Parasitic plants will fasten upon them; beneath their destroying grasp names and dates will disappear, and generations yet to come will be unable to tell whether they look upon the grave of a prince or upon that of a peddler—the narrow house of him who retired to the straw pallet of poverty, will not then be known from that of him who reclined upon the silken couch of affluence—

Our party assemble, and we find the little steamer Cygnet at her wharf, looking as neat and trim as the graceful bird after which she is named. Newly painted, she was about to start on the first trip of the season.

Half-past six was the hour of departure, but a heavy wet fog hung over this city by the sea, and we were obliged to await its disappearance. At length the sun struggled through the clouds, and the mist cleared rapidly away. We hauled out and steamed slowly up the Elizabeth River, then past the Navy Yard, with its tall smoking chimneys, its long rows of yellow buildings, its leaning derricks, its neat and trim little square, domineered over by a lordly flag-staff, whose base is guarded by cannon captured from the enemies of the Republic, and its dismantled ships—relics of past naval architecture. As we pass, the shrill cry of the boat-swain's whistle is heard on ship-board, piping all hands to breakfast, mingled with the music of the busy clinking hammers forging chains and anchors. A few miles above this naval station human habitations cease, scarcely a living thing greets the eye—we are in almost entire solitude.

The eagle is seen grandly floating on the air, or poised ready to strike a defenceless animal or crippled bird. The buzzard, of loathsome aspect, perched upon a blasted tree, waits for his gorged appetite to sharpen, that he may descend and fatten upon some putrid carcase. The river, narrow and tortuous, rolls its black waters between low and marshy banks, flat, and running back to thin growths of stunted pines and other badly nourished trees. As we go on, the senses are now and then refreshed by the sight of a clump of pines, which have persisted in growing tall and straight, with tufts of bright green foliage waving gracefully in the wind. For many miles this is about the description of country we pass through.

At Great Bridge we enter the locks of the Chesapeake and Albemarle Canal. A battle was fought here in 1775 and the British defeated. Here are the Company's houses, well constructed and neatly painted—a credit to the corporation as well as to the guiding spirit. The substantial locks and well kept dwellings and offices, like the gilded signs over the doors of the haunts of vice, are pleasant to look upon, but they do not tell of that which is within. If the passage up the river is dismal, what shall we say of the journey through this canal. It is a dreary sameness cut right through a great swamp, merely wide enough to admit the passage of two vessels, with only a dull damp settlement here and there—a country store and the inevitable porch, with its squad of frowsy, unkempt idlers.

The country store and post-office is the same everywhere: it belongs to every clime and nationality—it is a human device and speaks an universal language. It is generally overflowing with all sorts of commodities, from a hand-saw to a toothpick—is well stocked with calico and molasses, rum and candles, straw hats and sugar, bacon and coal oil, and gun-powder and beeswax. It is the rallying point for all the mischief-making gossips to collect, for the settlement of the affairs of the nation, and, failing in that, to set the neighbors by the ears.

Leaving the canal, we go out into another river: a bright spot breaks upon us—a lumber station with new, fresh-looking piles of sawed lumber. The banks of this stream are just as low, marshy and uninteresting as the one we have passed through, and more crooked. There are perhaps a few more trees—some oaks, and we observed a tree with its crimson and yellow autumn foliage, backed by a clump of pines, looking beautiful against the dark green, like sunlight illumining a gloomy spot.

After winding through the channel for a few hours, we enter Currituck Sound. This shallow sea takes its name from a tribe of Indians which once owned the adjacent lands. It is quite a large sheet of water, though not deep, about fifty miles long, and nearly ten at the widest part. It is dotted with small, low, sedgy islands, marshes and swamps. After enduring the approaches to it, quite an enlivening scene is presented. Persons are seen on the shore of the mainland, and boats are moving about in various directions. Huge groaning windmills, with tattered sails, guard the shore and torture the Indian corn into bread-stuff. Now for the first time the traveler begins to realize what it is to see wild fowl. The water seems black with ducks and geese, and dazzling white with the graceful swans. The latter sit in great flocks on the shoals, for miles in length. As the steamer approaches, they arise in such vast numbers as to nearly blacken the heavens with a rushing sound like the coming tornado. Arriving as near our destination as the vessel can take us, we disembark, landing on a strong platform built far out from the shore. For a half hour we are busy getting our traps from the bait—guns, dogs, ammunition, boxes, bags, bales, bundles, baskets and barrels. We had left nothing unpurchased which could contribute to the comfort of the inner or outer man—especially the former. Now we transfer everything to a small boat, sent from the beach miles away, to meet and convey us to our journey's end—our home for a few weeks, where we must conform to the customs of the natives as near as possible. We do not reach the Hall until the twilight has faded into darkness. The water is too shallow to allow even this small craft to approach the shore near enough to enable us to land, so carts are driven out to it, and the baggage and provisions piled therein. The teams being loaded, us city folks, with store clothes on, are carried ashore on the backs of our amiable and hospitable friends. They have a contempt for dry places, water being their element. Proceeding to the house, we are welcomed in the warmest possible manner by our host and his ever busy and pleasant daughter Nora. We are installed as a part of the family, for we have been there before—we are not strangers. Nora and her sable assistants had prepared an abundant and inviting meal for us, and we enjoyed it with an appetite quickened by the sail across the Sound.

After supper we made our arrangements for the first day's shooting, and then retired—sinking into beds so downy as to induce sleep in a few moments—and we do sleep just as soundly as if we had always been wise and good and happy. The club house, "Raymond Hall," is an ordinary frame one, situated on the shore of the Sound, a few rods from the sea. It is surrounded by a tolerable growth of persimmon and other trees; it stands alone, and at night is as silent as the halls of death—not a sound being heard except the bark of the watchful house-dogs. The wind murmurs about the angles of the house, and through the branches of the trees, in dreary harmony with the roar of the ocean. It is somewhat startling, for a few nights, to us denizens of cities, to notice the entire absence of all precautions against depredators—there are neither locks nor bolts. Life is primitive here; all honor the head of the family, and bow to his will. The people, young and old, are universally kind and respectful to those strangers who sojourn among them, meeting them in a spirit of frankness and exacting the same. We shoot whenever the weather is suitable, and amuse ourselves at other times in various ways—repairing boats, rigging decoys, cleaning guns, loading shell, and making ready for a good day when it does come. We breakfast between eight and nine o'clock, then, donning our shooting attire, including rubber boots, which are indispensable, we go to the landing. Wading out to our boats, laden with all the implements of destruction, we depart for the day's sport. A small fleet of five sail starts in a bunch like a flock of white-winged birds; the swiftest of them shoot ahead, fading out in the distance; others disappear behind the islands or into some of the numerous creeks, and for that day we are lost to each other.

We meet again at night, however, and compare notes. The number of birds each has secured, the good and bad shots, with other events of the day, are all pleasant topics at supper. After the evening meal, we plan the next day's business, and then, wearied, we seek our feather beds and sleep too soundly even to dream. So we pass the days in a sort of luxurious vagabondism. How very pleasant it is to be a vagabond, when one may return to starched linen and the trammels of civilization whenever one wishes!

Our club was composed of six persons: Mondray H. Charles, Rory Theodoric, Jas. O'Kelly, Geo. H. Crege, H. H. Josephus and Geo. G. Paullo. Two servants accompanied the party—Steve and Jacob, Steve is a rattling, roaring fellow, who had never before been without the sound of the breakers of his native Long Island, and was ready to perform any act for his friends, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. Jacob, the companion of Steve, is the very opposite in all things; is a genteel fellow, wears a clerical necktie of immaculate whiteness, and has the appearance of having studied for the ministry, and graduated as a cook. His table is a marvel of neatness, and his culinary experience has enabled him to set many a tempting dish before us.

During our stay on the beach many amusing incidents occurred; we will try and give some of them as they return to our memory. It may not be uninteresting to know how and where we shoot, and so we give something of a description. We draw lots for the choice; each selects the point, or island, or strait, which, in his judgment will afford the best shooting for the day, and there builds a blind. This blind is made by breaking down the tall reeds, leaving a fence in front, next the water, to secrete the gunner from the game. Behind this screen a sort of nest is formed by matting down the reeds and marsh grass. It is rendered more comfortable by spreading a rubber blanket, upon which are arranged for use, guns, ammunition, lunch and a bottle—of water. The decoys are placed out in long range, in such a manner as to make them appear as natural looking as possible, and then we are ready for business. Now here they come—a flock of seven geese, plump down among the stool, but get up again with equal haste. Two of them are knocked down with the breech-loader, one dead, the other only wounded—a third stopped by the muzzle-loader. Theodoric was dreamily watching his decoys as they danced about, when a bunch of sprig-tail swooped dawn, hovering above the stool. He picked his bird, and dropped two with the first barrel, and another responded to the discharge of the second. They came tumbling down into the water—dead. One could not easily imagine a duck's head capable of expression, but when they come lively, alight among the dummies, and hear no quack of recognition, they soon discover the fraud, and the frightened haste with which they gather themselves up and attempt to make off, is expression all over.

Crege, who is one of the best amateur shots on Long Island, as a medal now in his possession will attest, had taken his number twelve, and walked the marshes for snipe. So far as the ducks were concerned, he had missed the sport, but he brought in a bunch of forty-five English snipe, which compared favorably with the success of the others. Crege is a superior marksman, but he shoots much better when the boys gather about the table at the club on a winter evening, where they talk their shots over again, and trot their horses at impossible speed. O'Kelly is one of the constitutionally chosen Senators for the great State of New York, is a prime shot, an enthusiastic sportsman, and one of the most genial of our friends. He had located on a distant island, and expended powder and shot with his usual prowess—returning laden with game. This was decidedly the best day we had had, and the score was as follows: Charles, nineteen canvas-back, eleven teal, three geese and twelve red-head, mallard and black duck; Theodoric brought in sixty-five birds—canvas-back, red-head, sprig-tail and black-head; O'Kelly, who had had surprising luck, counted fifty canvas-back, and twenty-five common ducks. It was a good count, and the game was hung up in the boat house with the other birds.

Many of the natives are professional gunners, and haunt the marshes day and night, shooting for market, and thus making a living. If one cannot shoot, one may resort to these people and purchase a boat load. It is, however, a reprehensible practice.

There is no tide in the Sound except that which is caused by the wind, and as high water and a stiff breeze are essential to good sport, it is not possible to have good shooting every day. When the wind comes from the right quarter it makes a full tide, and drives the fowl nearer the shore and up into the creeks where they may feed.

It was getting toward the end of our sojourn; we had experienced several quiet balmy days—no wind, low water, general listlessness. "Should we have any more fun?" we asked, and went to bed. About midnight the wind came howling through the trees, the weather became cold, and the rattling windows responded to the hope of a good day to-morrow. Getting our breakfast early, we selected our points and hastened to the boats. Dark clouds, flying over a dull wintry sky, denoted a steady blow—it was cheering. The blinds were quickly reached, and decoys thrown out. Only a few birds were flying, the fitful wind becoming higher and higher and then dying out entirely. The clouds, however, soon drifted away, the sun appeared as bright and beautiful as summer—almost persuading us to take off our coats. Disheartened at the coquettish nature of the weather, we gave it up. Not a bird to be seen—we took our bottles, and throwing our heads back on our shoulders, tried to look through the bottoms of them—they in turn gave out a gurgling sound of complaining emptiness. We fell into a refreshing sleep; the hours passed away unheeded, until we were awakened by the rustling of the reeds bending in the breeze, whispering of the coveted blow. Heavy black clouds were gathering, and soon old Boreas came cracking out from the right point of the compass.

This aroused the ducks in the open water to flight, and they came in, seeking the shelter of the shore—a fatal protection. Charles, the original explorer of the Sound as a sporting place, and founder of the "Raymond Hall" Club, did some good work—taking them, right and left, with each barrel, and dropping single blue-winged teal with unerring aim.

Theodoric is the most amiable, patient friend imaginable; can conduct a bank equal to any man in New York; and we all esteem him very much. He labors under the mild hallucination, however, that he must be constantly doing something, and nearly all this is expended in cleaning his gun. Morning and evening it undergoes this polishing process, and on Sunday he rests himself by giving it another wipe.

"It's a little leaded, you know, George," he remarks, and at it he goes. Human nature may stand this, but guns won't.

On one occasion when he tried to jam a cleaning rod through it, larger than the bore, it refused to go.

"You won't, won't you," said he, as he raised it aloft and brought it down with all his might on the floor. It went in; but the gun bulged just as any good gun will do, and the eruption yet stands on the barrel, a monument of his determination.

Steve was called in, and a pulling match ensued. Steve had hold of the gun and Thee firmly clenched the rod. The gun could stand the combined strength of two powerful men no better than it could resist the jamming of the rod, and they parted. Steve went backwards over Mary Rogers, a dog, and took a moist seat in a tub of warm water, which had been prepared for cleaning guns. Steve said the water was hot, while our fastidious friend looked bland, gathered himself up from out a pile of empty shells, mixed with scraps of red flannel and oil-rags, and said "I knew it would come out."

Josephus, the great Canarsie fisherman, is not an enthusiast about gunning, and left his sporting traps at home. He only went down for a few days' fishing, and was prepared to take large numbers of bluefish. Armed with a stout line and squid, he invited us over to see him do it. The ocean was rough, and came rolling up in long heavy swells; the fish were far out at sea. After getting his line arranged to his satisfaction, he took firm hold of it a few feet above the squid; we all looked admiringly on. By a series of dexterous gyrations about his head he sent it flying a hundred feet out into the water—it was beautifully done. Skillfully he hauled it in, hand over hand. The squid followed, as bright and shining as when he had cast it out, but no fish. He made ready again, and with that nonchalant air of a man who feels perfectly sure that he can do just what he wants to, he gave it that preparatory whirling motion again, and away it went.

The best efforts will fail sometimes, and the most skillful are often doomed to disappointment—it was so in this case. The hook did not go for a blue fish, but fastened itself in the leg of a too confiding dog that stood looking curiously on, just as those canine friends of man so often do. The misguided animal went howling away, and had to be captured and the hook extracted.

He felt sure he could do it, however, and he tried it again, with as much preparation as before, and twice the determination; he missed the sea altogether, and the barbed instrument buried itself into that portion of male wearing apparel that comes in contact with the chair, when one indulges in that agreeable and refreshing posture of sitting down: they will need repairing.

Paullo is a good shot—with a knife and fork—and can look on at others who are doing hard work, with more nerve and complacency than any man who visits the Sound. He had been persuaded to go to a certain pond where ducks were abundant and easy to shoot. This was good; he put his decoys out and waited. A bird was coming down—it went among the stool. It was a beautiful specimen of the feathered tribe, with a bill like a crow. In some places it is known as a crow duck, but the proper local name here is "blue-peter." Blue-peter seemed to have no fear, but sported around and among the dummies, and tossed the bright drops of water from its shining plumage. With the true feelings of a sportsman, Paullo wanted the bird to have a fair chance, and so tossed bunches of marsh grass at it—it would not fly. Picking up his gun he fired, wounding several decoys.

The battle raged all that day and the next, blue-peter diving at the flash of the gun, and defiantly coming up and wailing for it to be reloaded.

On the morning of the third day, our Nimrod was late. When he arrived, the duck was there patiently waiting to renew the fight, and was busily engaged picking the shot from the bottom of the pond, tossing it up and catching it in its bill as it came down. With such a gunner and such game, this might last a week. Strategy was resorted to, and when blue-peter went under at the flash, our hero waded out and struck it with a club as it came to the surface. The victory was not to the duck. Late that evening Steve and Jacob were seen carrying from the landing to the house the dead B. P., strung by the neck to the centre of a ten-foot pole, one pall-bearer at each end, and the conqueror leading the procession. On his arrival he was greeted by his fellow members with that distinguished consideration which our people so freely accord to actors of great deeds.

We remained on the beach four weeks, and had many pleasant days. We have now returned to our respective homes, wearied in body but refreshed in mind, well pleased with our trip, with each other, and with a decided inclination for a repetition of the jaunt.

We cannot leave the subject without paying tribute to our friend and companion, Joe Creed. Joe is a large resolute dog of an amiable disposition, a dirty yellow coat, and a small bright eye of the same color. He has a keen sense of duty, but never leaves the blind until he sees the game falling, when he proceeds to bring it in. He was undoubtedly born for it. If two birds fall, with almost human intelligence he gets both. Taking the farthest first, stopping on his way in to pick up the other, he comes in with one swinging on each side of his great shaggy head. They tell of him that he has been caught stealing sheep. We do not believe it—it is a mistake; he may have been in bad company, that is all. Joe was the property of a gentleman on Long Island, and we trusted his exploits in the North might vie with his achievements in the South.

But Joe came to an untimely end; he was found shot to death. The following was placed over his grave:

"Near this spot
Are deposited the remains of one
Who possessed beauty without vanity,
Strength without insolence,
Courage without ferocity,
And all the virtues of man without his vices."

Born in North Carolina, March, 1875.
Died at Jamaica, Long Island, March, 1876.

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