THOSE GEESE: 



THE DREAM OF A WINTER EVENING. 



FOR three successive seasons those geese had fairly out-witted us. 

 Time after time had we seen them scudding over the swampy land 

 in one great skein, or curiously formed V shaped wedge, sheering 

 off half-a-mile out of shot directly they noticed our crouching forms 

 amid the thin rushes, in which we had vainly attempted to conceal 

 ourselves. Often had we heard them, " clanging " loudly above us 

 on some dark winter evening when coming home from the "flight" 

 or "fleet," as it is locally called, with, maybe, a couple of ducks 

 and a teal in our pockets. Jim had shot at them now and again, 

 but always a long shot, a sort of "forlorn hope" that a chance 

 pellet might bring one thumping to the ground. But all our efforts 

 to overcome their Machiavelian cunning had been in vain, 

 and no entry under that tempting heading " Wild Geese " appeared 

 in the little game book. I can't exactly say how it was, but one 



