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.

COUNTRY STORE.

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.

GOING ASHORE.

RAYMOND HALL.

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