ere evidently attracted by the favourable resting-place,
and in less than a quarter of an hour, the air was darkened with the
hosts hovering over our heads; the sound of their wings defies
description, those of my readers who remember the peculiar noise made by
a single pigeon in its flight, may form a faint idea by multiplying the
sound a million times. It in fact filled the air, and produced a
startling effect. Thousands of the birds alighted on the trees, the
branches of which snapped and crackled fearfully under the
superincumbent load; those of our party who were armed, continued to
fire and load as fast as they possibly could. They brought hundreds to
the ground, but still, through weariness, perhaps, the rest kept their
station on the branches, and did not appear to heed the attack
much--shifting 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, w