The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul 
spattered on the glassy lake, then rose to the 
measured ‘‘Honk, honk”; soaring away in a flock, 
they drifted into line, to join those other honkers 
in the Southern sky. 
“Honk, honk, honk!” they shouted as they sped. 
“Come on! Come on!” they inspired each other 
with the marching song; it set their wings aquiver. 
The wild blood rushed still faster in their wilding 
breasts. It was like a glorious trumpet. But— LS 
what! Mother is not in the line. Still splashed ~ 
she on the surface of the lake, and father, too—. ES 
and now her strident trumpet overbore their i" 
clamorous “On, on! Come on!” with a strong A” 
“Come back! Come back!” And father, too, 
was bugling there. ‘‘Come back! Come back!” 
So the downlings wheeled, and circling high above 
the woods came sailing, skirting, kiting, splashing 
down at the matriarchal call. 
“What's up? What’s up?” they called lowly all 
together, swimming nervously. ‘‘Why don’t we 
go?” “What is it, mother?” 
And mother could not tell. Only this she knew, 
that when she gave the bugle note for all to fly, she 
spattered with the rest, and flapped, but it seemed 
she could not get the needed send-off. Somehow 
she failed to get well under way; the youngsters 
rose, but the old ones, their strong leaders, had 
215 
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: Ya 
PRS 
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