The Sand-hill Crane 365 



seemed the best policy, for the sinking process 

 was steadily going on. So I edged nearer. 



That infernal crane must have read Haggard's 

 yarn of Good and his beautiful white legs, for he 

 appeared to recognize the last visible inch of 

 white, on which he promptly scored. The touch 

 of his dagger was the most thrilling thing so far, 

 but the stroke fully extended his long neck, which 

 was promptly gripped. Had I been six inches 

 nearer, his blow might have bored a hole an inch 

 or so deeper; as it was the red ink and the black 

 were mixing freely. My personal comments on 

 cranes unto the third and fourth generation and 

 swamps from the Flood downward, need not be 

 dwelt upon. Only the man holding an unchokable 

 sand-hill crane by the neck, having a freshly bored 

 hole in his leg, and standing upon an acre or so of 

 poultice made out of black bread and just begin- 

 ning to draw, will ever be able to understand. 



But the end was not yet. The return had to 

 be made with due caution, and every now and 

 then the crane would grab something with his 

 sound foot and beat with his wings till the storm- 

 centre looked like a mud volcano. To pick one's 

 steps under such conditions is not so easy as writ- 

 ing about it. At last, when fairly firm footing 

 was only a couple of yards away, one bare shin 

 encountered something which felt like "shell- 

 burred cable." The very touch of it produced an 



