2 On the trail of vanishing birds 



travel, and an endless array of kindred matters. These things had 

 substance and durability. They were real then and they are just as 

 real today. If Seton had never written another book or drawn an- 

 other picture, our debt to him and our regard for his particular 

 brand of magic a regard that has grown with the years would 

 remain unchanged. 



My birthplace in northern Pennsylvania lies in the West Branch 

 Valley of the Susquehanna, at the foot of a range of mountains. 

 Black bears, deer, wild turkeys, bobcats, and other game roamed 

 the oak scrub in abundance. I can remember my Aunt Georgiana 

 coming into the house one winter morning, breathless. The wind 

 had drifted the snow clear of the long plank walk and when she 

 had turned to see who was following her, and making so much 

 noise about it, there was a big ten-point buck standing right be- 

 hind her! In the surrounding countryside roads were few and un- 

 improved. Winter and summer my brother and I could tramp all 

 day along the hogbacked ridges, guns in hand, without meeting 

 another human being. And this meant a lot to us, for we were 

 actually living a dream of the wild. We were still pretty young 

 when Uncle John loaned us his Winchester and we set off in an 

 early fall of snow to kill a bear. We had seen the bear's tracks on 

 the slopes of Bald Eagle Mountain, and by luck we came across 

 them again. They were undoubtedly fresh as we began our stalk. 

 At one point, on the crest of a ridge that dropped off toward a great 

 pile of rocks where the bear may have had a den, we could hear 

 him bumbling down the steep slope just ahead of us, but the snow 

 was wet and heavy and he was quite invisible. I wanted a shot at 

 that bear more than anything in the world. I recall getting down 

 on my knees, while making my brother do the same, and praying 

 earnestly for a chance at him. My brother, who was always very 

 sensible, objected at first on the grounds that it wasn't right to ask 

 God's help in killing something. But I pointed out that we would 

 only ask that the snow let up enough to give us a clear view. "Damn 

 it, John," I whispered, "get down on your knees before the bear 

 gets away!" John did so, reluctantly, but in spite of our entreaties 

 the snow continued and the bear escaped. Such disappointments 



