Creeping up close to the scene, I quietly hid 

 in a big drift of leaves and corn-blades that the 

 winds had piled in a corner of the worm-fence, 

 and became an uninvited guest at the strangest, 

 gruesomest assemblage ever gathered— a buz- 

 zards' banquet. 



The silence of the nether world wrapped this 

 festive scene. Like ugly shades from across the 

 Styx came the birds, deepening the stillness with 

 their swishing wings. It was an unearthly pic- 

 ture : the bare, stub-stuck corn-field, the gloomy 

 pines, the silent, sullen buzzards in the yellow 

 winter sunlight ! 



The buzzards were stalking about when I ar- 

 rived, all deliberately fighting for a place and a 

 share of the spoil. They made no noise ; and 

 this dumb semblance of battle heightened the 

 unearthliness of the scene. As they lunged 

 awkwardly about, the ends of their over-long 

 wings dragged the ground, and they tripped and 

 staggered like drunken sailors on shore. The 

 hobbling hitch of seals on land could not be less 

 graceful than the strut of these fighting buzzards. 

 They scuffled as long as there was a scrap to 

 fight for, wordless and bloodless, not even a fea- 

 [327] 



