Along Shining Shores 79 



marsh, until it kisses the sky-line and fades 

 into eternity. I begin to dream of great 

 things. Nothing small disturbs my vision — 

 not a house or man or woman is in sight. 



I begin to feel pity for the feathered life 

 I've come to take, when my eye rests on a 

 mother fiddler in the mud beside me, peeping 

 out of her hole to make sure no curlew is near 

 before venturing out for food for her chil- 

 dren. I clutch my gun and determine to 

 take sides with the fiddlers. 



"A curlew's a mean bird, anyhow," I mut- 

 tered. " Confound 'em! let 'em come here 

 and I'll burn 'em up! Besides, I've prom- 

 ised my wife enough birds for the table this 

 week." 



Suddenly the shrill call of a curlew scout 

 rang over the marsh, and old Mrs. Fiddler 

 cut a somersault to get into her cyclone 

 cellar. 



I slipped the safety-lock of my gun and 

 tried to get under my hole in the ground. 



