Waterfowl 51 



and driftwood to shield myself from their view. 

 As it was already late and the sun was just sinking, 

 I hastily retreated a few paces, dropped over the 

 bank, and began to creep along on my hands and 

 knees through the sand and gravel. Such work is 

 always tiresome, and it is especially so when done 

 against time. I kept in line with a great log washed 

 up on the shore, which was some seventy-five yards 

 from the geese. On reaching it and looking over 

 I was annoyed to find that in the fading light I could 

 not distinguish the birds clearly enough to shoot, as 

 the dark river bank was behind them. I crawled 

 quickly back a few yards, and went off a good bit 

 to the left into a hollow. Peeping over the edge I 

 could now see the geese, gathered into a clump witH 

 their necks held straight out, sharply outlined against 

 the horizon; the sand flats stretching out on either 

 side, while the sky above was barred with gray and 

 faint crimson. I fired into the thickest of the bunch, 

 and as the rest flew off, with discordant clamor, ran 

 forward and picked up my victim, a fat young 

 wild goose (or Canada goose), the body badly torn 

 by the bullet. 



On two other occasions I Have killed geese witH 

 the rifle. Once while out riding along the river 

 bottoms, just at dawn, my attention was drawn to 

 a splashing and low cackling in the stream, where 

 the water deepened in a wide bend, which swept 

 round a low bluff. Leaving my horse where he 

 was, I walked off toward the edge of the stream, 

 and lying on the brink of the bank looked over into 



