218 SMALL SHOT 



wait for them all along their thoroughfare at every 

 halting place, greedy for the most, craving the last 

 of them. Then when he has wrought what havoc 

 he can, though not the half he would, and the 

 frightened survivors of the harried flocks of mi- 

 grants have gone their way to the savage but kinder 

 far North, he amuses his bloodthirst awhile with 

 spawning bass and trout fry too small to wear a 

 visible spot, and boasts shamelessly of the num- 

 bers he has caught. 



Presently the woodcock is hatched and able to 

 fliy and so is the young grouse, and the half-grown 

 plover is making short flights across the fields where 

 it was born, and the goose-killer is in his glory now, 

 for he can smell powder and taste warm blood 

 again. It matters little to him what the husbanded 

 chances of the future might bring. He counts a 

 tough morsel to-day better than a tender feast to- 

 morrow. A lean waterfowl in spring, an untimely 

 taken fish, a half-grown woodcock, or grouse or 

 plover in summer time are more to him than the 

 dozen or score of each that might be hatched from 

 the golden egg, and might be taken by and by in 

 their proper season — by some one else, perhaps. 

 Aye, there's the rub that brings upon the world 

 the calamity of the goose-killer's existence and 

 evil deeds. He must have what he will to-day, lest 

 some one get more to-morrow, though there be 

 nothing left for any one to-morrow. 



