their position or only flying off for a moment and then again alighting.  By this time many of the settlers from the surrounding districts had arrived to share in the quarry.  Thousands of birds were brought to the ground; in fact, every discharge of the guns and rifles brought down showers to our feet; and the noise seemed to resemble our being engaged in action with a foe; without, however, the dire effects of such a rencontre to ourselves.  After bagging our game, of which we secured nearly two hundred brace, we returned to the boat, leaving the rest of the sport to those who chose to continue it.  We had enough, and, for the remainder of the passage, were completely surfeited with pigeon fare, administered by the boat’s cook in all sorts of outlandish forms.  In our progress onward through the state, we saw many carcases of these birds outside the villages, such numbers having been destroyed, that the inhabitants could not consume them, and they were accordingly thrown out as refuse.  These birds were in good condition, and were excellent eating.

As the packet was likely to be detained for some hours at Zoar, a settlement about two miles beyond Bolivar, owing to a dispute between the captain and some officers connected with the canal, I availed myself of the opportunity, on the invitation of a very gentlemanly fellow-passenger from Connecticut, to visit a farm a few miles in the interior, where resided a celebrated character, named Adam Poe, surnamed by the inhabitants, the “Indian-killer,” who had acquired the summit of a backwoods-man’s fame, by some forty years ago shooting “Black-foot,” a formidable Indian marauder, who, for a long period, spread consternation and alarm among the early settlers.  As this exploit (whether justified by the circumstances and times or not, I cannot pretend to say) was one that restored security among the settlers, and dispersed a body of Indians, who destroyed every white inhabitant they encountered, and laid waste their farms, it is no wonder that Adam Poe was regarded as a great man.  On arriving at the farm-house, which was one of the better description in that region, we were kindly welcomed by the son of the hero I have mentioned, who bore the father’s patronymic, and after the usual hospitality, were ushered into an adjoining apartment, and introduced to the object of our visit.  He was sitting in an armchair by the side of his wife, who, like himself, was far advanced in years, their united ages numbering 173.  The old man, who was so feeble as to be unable to rise when we entered, saluted us with the usual “Glad to see you, strangers,” his spouse at the same time advancing towards us to shake hands.  He was evidently used to such intrusions; for, after inquiry where we came from and whither bound, he began, in a tremulous voice, which, from his extreme age, was scarcely intelligible, to narrate his early adventures.  It was absolutely shocking, as he became more animated by the subject, to hear the coolness with which the veteran related some of his bloody combats; so much so, indeed, that I and my companion at once cut short his narration, being horrified at the turpitude of the aged sinner, who, although gasping for breath, and evidently on the verge of the unseen world, talked of his deeds of violence with an ardour that befitted a better cause.