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 fiats 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 



