was not among the big, overgrown ducks of the 

 yard. He sought her in the swale. Day after 

 day he sought her, but she was not there. He 

 waited for her coming. Others came. Line 

 after line beat northward, high overhead, and 

 he called; but they fanned on— they were 

 scooters or mallards or goosanders. 



Little Aix had not been taken in the autumn 

 on the long south journey by his mother, where 

 he might have found a bride. But then, his 

 mother did not make the journey that fall. 

 The day that her eggs were stolen she was shot 

 from the top of the stub, and her world— and 

 mine — of lake and wood was robbed. 



I still can see her, if I wish, and her mate beside 

 her, wired to a board in a glass case. But I had 

 rather push quietly into the run and remember 

 them as they were alive here. 



The spot is still wild and sweet, but the charm 

 of its life is gone. I hoped little Aix would find 

 a bride and bring her back to the old home tree. 

 He was my last hope. There was no other 

 wood-duck around that I knew. Indeed, his 

 parents in the stub were the only pair I had 

 ever known in their own home. He, now, alone 

 [229] 



