WILD LIFE ABOUT MY CABIN 



about. Often in the course of the day I see him 

 circling above my domain, or winging his way 

 toward the mountains. His home is apparently in 

 the Shawangunk Range, twenty or more miles dis- 

 tant, and I fancy he stops or lingers above me on his 

 way to the river. The days on which I see him are 

 not quite the same as the other days. I think my 

 fnoughts soar a little higher all the rest of the morn- 

 ing: I have had a visit from a messenger of Jove. 

 The lift or range of those great wings has passed into 

 my thought. I once heard a collector get up in a 

 scientific body and tell how many eggs of the bald 

 eagle he had clutched that season, how many from 

 this nest, how many from that, and how one of 

 the eagles had deported itself after he had killed 

 its mate. I felt ashamed for him. He had only 

 proved himself a superior human weasel. The man 

 with the rifle and the man with the collector's 

 craze are fast reducing the number of eagles in the 

 country. Twenty years ago I used to see a dozen or 

 more along the river in the spring when the ice was 

 breaking up, where I now see only one or two, or 

 none at all. In the present case, what would it 

 profit me could I find and plunder my eagle's nest, 

 or strip his skin from his dead carcass ? Should I 

 know him better ? I do not want to know him that 

 way. I want rather to feel the inspiration of his 

 presence and noble bearing. I want my interest and 

 sympathy to go with him in his continental voyaging 



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