The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul 
time is gone; the warm bright heaven of the green 
and perfect land is here. This is the tidings it 
tells, and when I hear the honker-clang from the 
flying wedge in the sky, that is the message it 
brings me with a sudden mist in the eyes and a 
choking in the throat, so I turn away, if another 
be there, unless that other chance to be one like 
myself, a primitive, a “hark back” who, too, re- 
members and who understands. 
So when I built my home in the woods and 
glorified a marshy swamp into a deep blue 
brimming lake, with Muskrats in the water and 
..r intertwining boughs above, my memory, older 
than my brain, harked hungry for a sound 
that should have been. I knew not what; I 
tried to find by subtle searching, but it was 
chance in a place far off that gave the clue. I 
want to hear the honkers call, I long for the clang 
of the flying wedge, the trumpet note of ue long- 
gone days. 
So I brought a pair of the Blacknecks on an- 
other lake, pinioned to curb the wild roving that 
the seasons bring, and they nested on a little 
island, not hidden, but open to the world about. 
There in that exquisite bed of soft gray down were 
laid the six great ivory eggs. On them the patient 
mother sat four weeks unceasingly, except each 
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