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.  Every time we got out to pull the boat, the dogs would get out to look for woodcock, around the stumps, and when they got in the boat would be full of water and mud, and of course we had our best clothes on.  Did it ever occur to you how much water a dog could carry in his hair?  A dog is worse than a sponge.  An ordinary dog, with luck, can fill a skiff with water at two jumps.  Not, however, with us in the boat to bail out the water.  The woodcock’s tail sticks up like a sore thumb.  We are thus particular to describe the woodcock, so if you ever see one you can go right away from him.  Woodcock and mosquitoes are in “cahoots.”  While the woodcock bores in the ground for snakes and other feed that makes him fat and worth a dollar in New York, the mosquito stands on the ramparts and talks to the boys.

Well, speaking about woodcock, after riding five miles, through bushes, brambles and things, we got out of the boat and only had to walk a couple of miles to get where the birds were.  Right here we wish to state that we shouldn’t have gone after the woodcock at all, only everybody said it was such fun.  Root showed us a picture of a woodcock in a book, and if that didn’t convince us, the fact that a small boy came in town and sold three dozen, did.  Then we wanted to go.  There never has been a year when woodcock were so plenty at places we didn’t visit.  The most fun was at a ditch which was about a foot wider than any of us could jump.  Root gave his gun to McDonald and plunged in.  Then McDonald threw a gun to Root.  It hit him on the thumb-nail and dropped in the ditch out of sight.  Mc. thought it was Root’s gun, and he apologized