When they first cast their lines into the water, the sun’s rays were clearly visible through the thick wood in their rear.  The early morning, too, had been cold—­almost frosty—­so much so, that the wild ducks, which generally evinced a good deal of shyness, now, seemingly emboldened by the briskness of the atmosphere, could be seen gliding about in considerable numbers, about half a mile below them; while the fish, on the contrary, as though dissatisfied with the temperature of their element, refused to do what the men called “the amiable,” by approaching the hook.  Their occupation had been continued until long past mid-day, during which time not more than a dozen fish had been taken.  Vexed at his ill luck, for he had not had even a nibble, one of the men flung his rod upon the bank, impatiently, and then, seating himself on the projecting root of a large tree, declared it was all nonsense to play the fool any longer, and that the most sensible thing they could do, was to take their dinners—­smoke their pipes—­and wash the whole down with a little of the Monongahela.

“I say, Collins,” remarked the corporal, good-naturedly, “we shall have poor fare for the officers’ mess, let alone our own, if we all follow your example, and give up so soon.  But, as you say, it’s time to have some grub, and we’ll try our luck afterwards.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” said the man who had been fishing next to Collins, and drawing in his line also, “we’ve a good many hours left yet.”

Following the recommendation of the corporal, the rest of the party sat down on the edge of the bank, and, opening their haversacks, produced each his allowance of corn bread and venison, or salted pork, after dispatching which, with the aid of their clasp knives, they took a refreshing “horn” from the general canteen that Collins carried suspended over his shoulder, and then drew forth and lighted their pipes.

As the latter puffed away with a vigor that proved either a preoccupied mind, or extreme gratification with the weed, he cast his eyes carelessly down the stream, where a large description of duck, called by the French natives of the country, the cou rouge, from the color of their necks, were disporting themselves as though nothing in the shape of a fire arm was near them—­now diving—­now rising on their feet, and shaking their outstretched wings, now chasing each other in limited circles, and altogether so apparently emboldened by their immunity from interruption, as to come close to the bank, at a distance of little more than fifty yards from the spot where he sat.

“It’s very ridiculous,” he at length remarked, pouring forth at the same time, an unusual volume of smoke, and watching the curling eddies as they rose far above his head—­“it’s very ridiculous, I say, the captin’s order that we sha’nt fire.  Look at them ducks—­how they seem to know all about it, too!”

“By gosh!” said another, “I’ve a good notion to fetch my musket, and have a slap into them.  Shall I, corporal?”