He could have enticed a fish or two from their element, but he had set his heart upon partaking of a bird, and was not willing to accept anything else.

Accordingly, he began walking down the bank of the creek in search of one.
In such a country as was Minnesota forty years ago, the difficult matter would have been to _avoid_ game rather than to find it.

The trapper had searched but a short distance, when he caught sight of a single ptarmigan under the opposite bank.

In a twinkling Tim's rifle was raised, and, as it flashed forth its deadly messenger, the bird made a single struggle, and then floated, a dead object, down the current.
Although rather anxious for his prize, the trapper, like many a hunter since that day, was not willing to receive a wet skin so long as it was possible to avoid it.

The creek could be only of inconsiderable depth, yet, on such a blustering day, he felt a distaste toward exposing himself to its chilling clasp.