422 



RECREA TION. 



creet distance a flock of crows caw their 

 noisy way to the shore, and from over the 

 beach banks float the harsh screams of the 

 gulls feeding on the bars. Now and then, 

 a tiny white speck far up in the blue, wings 

 its way in land crossing to Buzzards bay. 

 With heavy flight and dismal " quork," 

 " quork," a night heron poises and drops 

 among the grasses along the creek. 



Faintly, from far up the marsh, sounds 

 the whistle of a yellog-leg. In an instant 

 George is alert and the little tin whistle that 

 hangs about his neck is brought into play. 

 Call for call he gives and now there are 

 several, and we know there is a flock. 

 Nearer come the clear sweet notes and now 

 the man in the stand above us takes a hand. 

 It is a contest in calling. In the distance 

 a dozen little black specks head in toward 

 the other stand. But George is a master 

 of his art. More and more plaintive and 

 seductive grow his calls. The specks hesi- 

 tate; an uncertain whistle floats down the 

 wind. Then the little tin whistle begins to 

 talk to itself in an indescribably contented 

 undertone. Such a breakfast, and so much 

 of it! There is not a place on the marsh 

 like this! What fools they are not to 

 come! It is enough! There are half a 

 dozen long inquiring notes; a prompt de- 

 cided response, and a head appears above 

 the other stand to watch the birds heading 

 our way. 



Past they swing back of us and then 

 catching sight of the decoys, suddenly turn 

 and with shrill whistles that fill all the air, 

 set their wings and drop down. As well 

 bunched they drop their long legs and the 

 tips of the long wings meet overhead, the 

 two guns speak and speak again. Only 3 

 sound the alarm note and start off on 

 strong wings, and even these are beguiled 

 back by the seductive whistle, to fall with 

 the others. 



And so it goes, now a flock, now a single, 

 an occasional plover or perchance a cur- 

 lew; some coming in readily, others requir- 

 ing an immense amount of coaxing and still 

 others, grown wary, offering only chance 

 shots as they speed by. And so the morn- 

 ing wears away, all too quickly. Before, the 



"WE GATHER UP THE BIRDS AND PLOD 

 HOMEWARD. ' 



grass crowned sand hills, occasional breaks 

 affording glimpses of the deep blue bay be- 

 yond, with now and then the white sail of a 

 mackerel fisher; above and back the level 

 marshes in changing shades of brown and 

 green stretching away to the uplands, and 

 crossed here and there with irregular lines 

 marking the windings of a creek. Peeping 

 through a mass of elms the spires and build- 

 ings of the village, and beyond all the 

 broad fields stretching awayup to the wood- 

 crowned hills purpling in the distance. 

 Great fleecy clouds drift overhead, throw- 

 ing fantastic shadows on the marsh and 

 anon throwing down a cap full of rain to 

 tip with a glistening diamond each blade of 

 grass. One could sit for hours — such a 

 perfect scene. With regret we finally 

 gather up the decoys and plod homeward 

 while the day is still young, the charm of 

 the early morning weaving a spell that the 

 promise of a royal dinner of broiled plover 

 alone can break. 



A WISH. 



WALTER M. HAZELTINE. 



Just to lie in the woods in June, 

 With a life that's bubbling free; 



With a will that's strong, and a 

 tune 

 With the hopes that used to be. 



heart in 



