The Sand-hill Crane 363 



could enjoy a fairish bit of sport. The willows 

 afforded the only "hide," and by the unwritten 

 law, the first man on the spot had the right to 

 that evening's flight. For this reason, on the 

 day in question, I was in possession about mid- 

 afternoon, and prepared to wait till dusk. 



The waiting was lazy work, but my cogitations 

 were interrupted by a big shadow drifting across. 

 To leap to feet and seize the gun was the natural 

 impulse, and I snapped at a great bird which was 

 swinging directly into the blinding glare of an 

 unclouded sun. For a few seconds eyes were use- 

 less, then something fell about the centre of the 

 pond. At first glance I mistook it for the com- 

 mon great blue heron, then rose the unmistakable 

 head and neck of a sand-hill. This was an impor- 

 tant discovery, and the next question was how to 

 secure the prize. I knew the crane was winged, 

 and its lying where it fell suggested that a leg also 

 had been put out of business, which later proved 

 to be the case. 



But how to get him out was the question. 

 There was an unknown depth of mud at the 

 bottom of that pond, and parts of it would heave 

 and quake in a nasty way. To attempt to swim 

 was entirely out of the question, for a man once 

 down in that mess would stand a brilliant chance 

 of stopping there. Finally I decided to reef up 

 trousers to the fork, to remove boots and socks, 



