TKHbere tbe /IDocMn0*bir5 Sings 



It is absolute relaxation, an unhindered, 

 unlimited bath in the freshest well of 

 imagination. And it has its danger; for 

 then comes the ancient perversity to give 

 you a dash of disappointment. Just at 

 the point of time when you are wrapped 

 in the softest webs of dream, and are not 

 expecting anything short of a divine poetic 

 revelation, some large game-bird or rare 

 animal is sure to offer itself as a tantalizing 

 momentary target, only to disappear with 

 a flicker of fur or feather when you begin 

 to string your bow. 



I remember losing the chance for a shot 

 at a wild goose — out of season, to be sure, 

 but a goose all the same — once on a line 

 morning, while standing agaze at vacancy, 

 listening to a wood-thrush singing by a 

 lake-side. The huge game-bird suddenly 

 appeared, coming slowly awing round a 

 thicket that overhung the water not twenty 

 yards from me. It flew right over my 

 head and swung leisurely out of sight 

 before I could fairly comprehend the op- 

 portunity. An incident like that can leaven 

 with bitterness a whole day of joy. 

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