THE QUAINT CAPE-CODDERS 293 



soles of their feet until the Bay of Fundy or Prince 

 Edward's Island is reached. 



Then we saw other flocks, equally large, come from 

 the south and stop to rest and feed before proceeding 

 on their journey to their mysterious and unknown 

 resting-place. 



As the one aim, the one conversation of the whole 

 nine of us was the pursuit of brant, we became sat- 

 urated with the theme. We thought brant, dreamt 

 brant, mused brant, discussed brant, and, perhaps, if 

 we swore at all, would have sworn brant. I have 

 known a poker-player with three aces in his hand — 

 and possibly another up his sleeve — to suddenly throw 

 down his cards and exclaim : " I want to shoot a 

 brant ! " showing very plainly that poker was not the 

 kind of game he was after. I have watched this same 

 chap lying upon his bed and tossing wearily from side 

 to side, while between his snores would come the whis- 

 pered wish: "I want to shoot a brant!" And he 

 would keep up these whispers until he was in the far- 

 off land of dreams and probably banging away at the 

 birds to his heart's content. 



But what about our Cape Cod luck ? Did we bag 

 many of the brant ? Yes, we all got our share. Even 

 our poker-player bagged enough of them to fill the 

 measure of his dreams and satisfy the demands of his 

 heated imagination. 



The cooking at the clubhouse on Monomoy Island 



