104 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME. 



Myriads of water-fowl traveling from the north 

 swept by without slackening a wing. Black in 

 the falling night the head and neck of the mal- 

 lard were outstretched for another hundred miles 

 before stopping. " Darkly painted on the crim- 

 son sky," the forked rudder of the sprigtail was 

 set for warmer regions. From where dark lines 

 of widgeon were streaming came down a plain- 

 tive whistle that plainly said Good-bye. Far 

 above all these and still bathed in rosy light were 

 floating southward as softly as flecks of down 

 long strings of sandhill cranes, sending down 

 through a mile or two of air their strangely pene- 

 trating notes. And even above these, with swifter 

 flight and more rapid stroke of wing than seemed 

 possible for birds so large, snowy swans rode the 

 sunlight of the upper air. 



Yet of the game that descended there was 

 more than enough for me. With trembling hand 

 I poured my last charge of powder into the 

 heated gun and raised it at a flock of mallards 

 gliding swiftly toward me with every long neck 

 aimed at my devoted head. Wheeeeeooooooo shot 

 a volley of green-wings between the mallards and 

 the gun. Kssssssssss came a mob of blue-wings 



