TRAVELS OF WATERFOWL 



Saturday night 1 For those who live in the country, this is the big event 

 of the week: early supper, hurry with the dishes, change to best clothes, 

 and off to town for three hours of shopping and small talk. Last evening 

 Joan and I crossed the marsh at sunset on our way to Portage la Prairie. 

 We had just slipped past Slack's Bluff when Joan touched my arm and I 

 brought the car to a stop. "There, over toward Portage Creek. What are 

 they, ducks or geese ?" Far to the southeast there hung a thin line above the 

 horizon, a frail wisp of thread, barely visible. We watched in silence as it 

 grew until finally we could make out its components. "Geesel" Then, of a 

 sudden, their voices drifted to us on the south wind. "Waviesl" We stepped 

 from the car to stand in the gathering dusk as the birds passed. Most were 

 Blue Geese, but their lines were punctuated here and there by Lesser Snow 

 Geese. They flew in a wide line from which sprouted small branches, the 

 whole forming a great blunt "V." As the mass moved it rose and fell as if 

 riding a rolling swell, the individuals within the flock ever shifting position 

 so that the pattern changed constantly. The geese were in full and constant 

 voice, a guttural gabbling accented by high, nasal shouts, by no means as 

 rousing as the whoop of swans or the bark of Canada Geese, but sweet 

 music, nevertheless, over the April prairie. 



The flock held steady course ; then at a point near Slack's Bluff it turned 

 sharply toward the annual lakeshore stopping place at the mouth of the 

 Whitemud River. As their voices faded, there came a louder clangor from 

 the southeast. As far as we could see came the geese, one broad "V" after 

 another. It was a great moment in my life, and I removed my hat in uncon- 

 scious response to some inner urge of respect as they passed. 



Each flock followed the same route as the first, and as the second group 

 approached Slack's Bluff it turned sharply to the west. Every successive band 

 held a steady course until it reached the turning place where the bend west 

 was made. Not only were these birds moving toward a destination, but their 

 trailway was marked by some special pattern which they followed. Maybe 

 it was Slack's Bluff. Maybe it was the arrangement of the fields or the plan 

 of the marsh and lake beyond or some other features of the landscape near 

 or far. Whatever it was, these geese moving in the boundless prairie skies 

 followed some cue that held them to their route. 



The sun has dropped into the lake. It is an April evening, not of one 

 day or of one year, but of at least three hundred April days of sixteen years. I 

 am standing at the bayside. Before me is the vast expanse of marshland still 



