112 Next to the Ground 



indeed, until the creek ran into the mill stream. 

 The trees were tall — beeches, poplars, red 

 and Spanish oaks, white oaks, hickories, tulip 

 poplars and occasional maples. They were 

 big also, with sturdy branches spreading so they 

 locked well together. But the sturdiness availed 

 nothing against the weight of the massed 

 pigeons. The birds settled in clouds, as thick 

 as they could stick, wherever they found a foot- 

 hold. Over-loaded boughs broke under them 

 all night long. People came from far and near 

 — at first to shoot, later simply to pick up the 

 birds knocked down with long poles or stunned 

 by the falling boughs. The ground was 

 covered with pigeon guano, feathers, and dead 

 birds, although hogs ranged underneath the 

 trees, and ate fat pigeons until even they could 

 eat no more. 



One single shot up amid the laden branches 

 brought down half a cart load of pigeons. The 

 man who dared to move about the roost with 

 a lighted lantern was swamped, almost crushed 

 indeed by the weight of birds flying to the light. 

 Pigeon-getters — hunters they could not be 

 called — went in bands. One carried the light, 

 the rest walked each side and knocked down 

 the birds as they flew. Soon the smell became 

 something indescribable, — even stronger and 

 more reekingthan the odor of genuine Peruvian 

 guano. The pigeons themselves fled from it 



