HONK, HONK, HONK! 101 



sighted goose the wild goose really is — for there are 

 few birds with his cunning and alertness. 



Along the Carolina shore the geese congregate in 

 vast numbers ; and when the day is calm, they ride 

 out into the ocean after feeding, so far off shore 

 that no hunter could approach them. At night they 

 come in for shelter across the bars, sailing into the 

 safety of the inlets and bays for a place to sleep. 

 If the wind rises, and a storm blows up, then they 

 must remain in the pools and water-holes, where the 

 hunter has a chance to take them. Only here, where 

 the odds, never even, are not all against the birds, 

 should the wild geese be hunted. 



With the coming of March there is a new note in 

 the clamor of the flocks, a new restlessness in their 

 movements ; and, before the month is gone, many 

 mated pairs^of the birds have flocked together and 

 are off on their far northern journey to the icy lakes 

 of Newfoundland and the wild, bleak marshes of 

 Labrador. 



Honk, honk, honk! Shall I hear them going over, 

 — going northward, — as I have heard them going 

 southward this fall? Winter comes down in their 

 wake. There is the clang of the cold in their trumpet- 

 ing, the closing of iron gates, the bolting of iron 

 doors for the long boreal night. They pass and leave 

 the forests empty, the meadows brown and sodden, 

 the rivers silent, the bays and lakes close sealed. 

 Spring will come up with them on their return ; and 



