88 The Life Worth Living 



The ideal flock has from ten to fifteen 

 birds. We wait for the critical moment 

 when they double in their flight after they 

 swing past the decoys. A shot just at this 

 second will often kill a dozen. 



At the end of three hours the tide has 

 ebbed off, and the sport is over for the day. 



I lie down on the sands, and wait for the 

 flood tide to catch a drum, loath to leave the 

 glorious spot. North and south stretches 

 the long white strip of sand as far as the eye 

 can reach. In front rolls and curls and 

 thunders the surf. Behind me lies in shim- 

 mering beauty the mirror of the Broad- 

 water bay, nine miles wide and eighty miles 

 long. There is not a human habitation in 

 sight. Above me the infinite space, flecked 

 now with white, swift-flying clouds — I dream 

 of a world without railroads, or mail — the 

 happy hunting-ground the red man saw in 

 visions of the olden time. 



