THE DUCK POND. 25 



experimental nibbles became few and far 

 between . 



To the angler who sits by the river- 

 side, this waiting for bites is a dull, wearisome 

 business, but there is no dulness for the man 

 on a duck pond. The latest nibbler had come 

 and gone, when a subdued hiss proclaimed a 

 new distraction. Glancing round, I beheld 

 some seven or eight geese approaching in 

 Indian file. The look , in their eyes told me that 

 they had no intention of diverging an inch from 

 their course. They were out to assert their 

 right to the pond by force and destruction, if 

 need were. I capitulated at once, hastily 

 dragged in line and float, and, with a hiss of 

 execration, the procession passed on, unhurried, 

 haughty, supercilious. I detest geese. 



But perhaps I am mistaken in that parting 

 hiss. It may have been a blessing, for 

 certain it is that thereafter the float was seldom 

 still, the net frequently in demand, and the 

 farmer's breakfast was assured, aye, and his 

 wife's, too, if she would, and I wish them joy 



