A TRIAL AT THE GEESE. 



J. H. V. BACHE. 



Leaving New York by steamer, Ernest 

 and I arrived in due time at a quaint little 

 town on the shore of Prince Edward Isl- 

 and. We had had rare sport there, in 

 former days, with the trout, but now the 

 season was closed. Cold weather was 

 coming and so were the geese, on their 

 annual flight Southward. 



Packing our guns and outfit into a small 

 yacht, late one afternoon, we set sail. 

 Night found us housed in a snug little 

 shooting shanty on one of the small isl- 

 ands in Richmond bay. After a hurried 

 breakfast of flapjacks and bacon the next 

 morning, we were soon on the march and 

 were barely settled in our stands when the 

 distant honking of geese told us the game 

 was on. The half light of the breaking 

 day showed us a long flight of birds com- 

 ing our way, but a little to Southward. 

 On they came, increasing in size every 

 moment, but if they continued in their 

 course they would be out of range. Sud- 

 denly from my left, where Ernest was 

 concealed, rose a perfect honk, swelling 

 with appealin t force. 



"Honk-a-wunk-onk-onk !" 



Back from the flock came the ringing 

 reply, 



"Ho-unk!" 



Then they swerved and headed directly 

 over our blinds. I lay perfectly flat, not 

 daring to move, and strained my ears to 

 catch the sound of wings. I didn't have to 

 wait long. With a thrill of joy I leaped 

 to my feet and let go both barrels. Two 

 big geese came tumbling down and struck 

 the water with a splash. Ernest had 

 scored also. The geese were quickly re- 

 covered and propped up for decoys. We 

 hastened back to our blinds as soon as 

 possible and had just picked up our guns 

 when another flock swung by Ernest. 



Bang! bang! roared his big 10. One 

 goose turned a complete somersault and 



gave up the ghost. Another was dropped 

 at extremely long range, and as the morn- 

 ing wore on we watched unceasingly all 

 around us, calling whenever the geese 

 came in sight. 



Sometimes they came by singles, some- 

 times by pairs, and then a flock would 

 sweep by, affording a fair mark, that 

 would occasionally result in a clean miss, 

 with no excuse for it. The main flight had 

 about ceased and we had 8 geese to our 

 credit, when, as we were leaving, the 

 honking of more geese in the distance 

 filled us with an uncontrollable desire for 

 one more shot. A flock of perhaps 30 

 suddenly appeared over a little hill to the 

 Southward in 3 separate bunches. They 

 flew rather high and directly overhead. I 

 emptied both barrels at them as they 

 passed, with apparently no effect until they 

 had gone possibly 100 yards. Then one 

 began to fall and gradually settled down, 

 nearly y 2 a mile away. Noting its position 

 we recovered it on the way back to our 

 boat. Six more geese appeared, and 

 passed in a line about 60 yards from our 

 blinds. I had all I wanted, so did not 

 molest them, but as the result of a second 

 barrel from Ernest one goose kinked its 

 neck, but did not fall. This is usually the 

 sign of a severe wound, so we watched 

 closely. It settled gradually and then 

 tumbled headlong to the ground, not more 

 than 300 yards away. It was dead when 

 picked up, having bled freely from a 

 wound in the neck from one large shot, the 

 only one that had struck it. 



The sun was high and a fair wind was 

 blowing to take us home, so we were not 

 long in boarding our yacht, with 10 fine 

 specimens of the Canadian bird. Roast 

 wild goose formed a tempting meal for 

 several of our friends in the village that 

 week. 



CAMP 



HALE HOWARD 



Good night, Old Sun! We'll stay a little 

 longer 

 To greet the Moon just rising o'er the 

 hill; 

 Far in the East the Night is growing 

 stronger, 

 While at thy heels the Day is smiling 

 still. 



O Queenly Orb! Clothed in thy fullest 

 splendor, 

 In thy dear light, we'll sing a little while. 

 But to thyself would greater homage 

 render 

 In restful slumber 'neath thy gracious 

 senile. 



SONG. 



RICHARDSON. 



Good night, Dark Wood! Thy denizens 

 unnumbered 

 Have to the Sun their thankful carols 

 made, 

 While hosts of Night that thro' the day 

 have slumbered 

 Now wing unhindered on some grue- 

 some raid. 



Good night, Sweet Stream! Thy melody 

 is ringing 

 With softest cadence thro' the Forest 

 aisles, 

 Borne on a breeze with balmy odors cling- 

 ing. 

 And rest and beauty ev'ry heart beguiles. 

 Good night! To all, Good night! 



