"Home is where one starts from." T. S. Eliot, Four 

 Quartets 



The Cycle of Migration 



Ihere come unforgettable evenings in late 

 August when a soft calm settles over the marsh. The breeze is spent and the 

 reeds duplicate themselves in perfect reflection. The sky is clear, yet with 

 sundown comes a refreshing chill. The tinkle of water from the canoe pad- 

 dle and the rustle of a wren in the tules are the only sounds. Here is the 

 world as God made it. Deep in the heart of the wheatland is a pristine 

 wilderness that can differ little from that so loved by the native Cree. This 

 might be the marsh as seen two centuries ago by La Verendrye. The dark 

 bulrush, the green cattail, and the tall reed have not changed ; sky and water 

 are the same; the wren must be a direct descendant of one that chattered 

 here when the explorer's canoe slipped past this very place. Surely all is the 

 same except for the tall grain elevator that rises above the oak bluff six miles 

 to the south. 



The peace is broken suddenly by the chuckle of a teal. Who is there so 

 solemn that he listens to the fall note of the Blue-winged Teal without a 

 smile? Here is a challenge offered severely, the youngster's exclamation of 

 its place in this ancient world of bulrush. Hardly before summer becomes 

 routine, autumn is upon us. These Blue-winged Teal, whose voices break 

 the tranquillity of the August evening, are birds-of-the-year. Bred in May, 

 born in June, reared before the wheat is ripe, they are on their way to the 

 wintering grounds before summer is gone. One evening after supper I flush 

 a hundred from the cove; the next morning only a dozen are frightened 

 from the same place. By the equinox the main flight has passed to the south ; 

 the end of the first week in October finds only a few stragglers remaining, 

 although there is promise of more fair weather before the shallows close 

 with ice. Whatever the urge, it surely is not the pressure of frost that sends 

 the bluewings to their southland. . . . 



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