A TINY TRAGEDY. 



L. C. Kli.MSON. 



The first faint light of early dawn was 

 stealing through the tree tops which 

 fringed the Eastern horizon as I arranged 

 myself behind an apology for a blind, 

 which consisted of a few sticks of drift- 

 wood and some willow bushes. Ducks were 

 not plentiful in those waters, but during 

 April there were occasional flocks passing 

 from lake to lake and, as several had been 

 seen within the preceding few days, I decid- 

 ed to try my luck with them that morning. 

 The place where I sat commanded the con- 

 necting channel between 2 portions of a 

 lake. It was the best obtainable position, 

 for the birds in flying up or down the lake 

 invariably passed through this narrow 

 space, which was bordered by alder bushes 

 and willows. "From this point I could 

 reach any bird passing between me and the 

 opposite shore. 



Nature gradually awakened about me at 

 the kiss of the rising sun. A flock of black- 

 birds called cheerily as they passed 

 Northward, their glossy plumage covered 

 with a metallic sheen by the glancing rays 

 of light. A muskrat stole from its lair and 

 swam boldly around the corner among the 

 willow sprouts. Hardly a breath of air 

 was stirring, and there w r as just enough 

 motion of the water to cause a gentle but 

 constant lap, lap, against the stony bank. 



An hour passed and not a duck. I 

 leaned over the blind and peeped down the 

 full length of the wooded shore. Ah ! 

 What is that? Mere black specks, one, 2, 

 3, 5 of them, headed my way. I braced 

 my feet firmly against a stone and broke 

 off" a twig which had been scratching my 

 cheek. Still they came, steady as clock- 

 work, stretched in a perfect line, the leader 

 well in advance. My gun was opened 

 nervously and the shells examined. All 

 right; 3^ drams of powder and \}/% 

 ounces of No. 4 shot. They were black 

 ducks and coming directly up the channel. 

 The tip of my srun covered the leader and 

 was quickly advanced, straight on a line 

 with his neck and 3 feet ahead of him. 



Bang ! — Bang ! — 



The first falls. Hurrah ! The second 

 shot also took effect and the bird last in the 

 line flopped helplessly on its side in the 

 water. Another double and they were go- 

 ing like the wind, too. One dropped with- 

 out a struggle. 



As I pushed the old scow from beneath 

 the bushes the 3 remaining ducks were 

 just disappearing in the blue distance far 

 up the lake. I picked up the birds and 

 paddled back to the blind well satisfied 

 with myself and my little Syracuse gun. 



179 



Quiet reigned once more. The only re- 

 maining signs of the exciting moments just 

 past were the birds lying at my side and 

 a faint odor of burnt powder which lingered 

 around my gun. 



Directly opposite me on the other shore 

 a clump of pussy willows nodded to and 

 fro, and as I sat watching the stretch of 

 blue water, first to the North and then to 

 the South, I was, suddenly attracted'toward 

 those willows by an exquisite burst of 

 melody. On the very topmost branch a 

 little song sparrow was perched, his head 

 held back, and his whole strength thrown 

 into the rendering of the song, so small in 

 itself and yet so clear and sweet that I fell 

 quite in love with the sober-colored little 

 singer and became so deeply engrossed in 

 watching him that I was completely taken 

 by surprise w r hen 2 more black ducks 

 swept into view nearly opposite the blind. 

 With a jerk my gun came to my shoulder, 

 but as the report awakened the echoes I 

 saw that in following the ducks my gun 

 had been brought to bear on the pussy wil- 

 lows, and my friend had fallen from sight. 

 The ducks were gone, but 2 or 3 tiny 

 feathers floated up from the willows, tell- 

 ing of the tragedy of the little singer's 

 death. 



I paddled the old scow out again, crossed 

 the channel, and after a short search found 

 him lying still, his bill opened, and drops 

 of blood trickling out, as though he had 

 died in the midst of a song. One shot 

 had struck him in the side. The very 

 stillness seemed sad as I again took my 

 seat behind the blind, wrapped the sparrow 

 carefully in my handkerchief and put him 

 in my hunting coat. 



A duck was coming, a solitary old fel- 

 low, and he looked as big as a goose. I 

 was ready that time and waited patiently 

 until he came opposite. 



Bang! Bang! 



He was hit hard, but up, up, he flew, 50, 

 100. yes, 200, feet, and then his strength 

 gave away. Those untiring wings, which 

 had carried him back and forth from the 

 cool waters of New England to the sunny 

 rivers of' the South, could soar no farther; 

 his head drooped and straight into the 

 lake he fell, dead. He was marked and 

 colored beautifully and as I held him up 

 with the others I felt well paid for the 

 time spent in the blind : though sad at the 

 thought of the little fellow in my pocket. 



I trudged across the hills toward home 

 with a growing appetite for dinner and a 

 keen appreciation of the possibilities of ob- 

 taining a good one from my game bag. 



