ONE GOOSE AND ANOTHER. 



255 



Only 3 arose and started post haste for 

 sea. The last I saw of them was 3 specks 

 going toward Long Island. 



My victim was floating quietly on his 

 back, his head completely riddled with shot. 

 I took him in, threw him on the ground, 

 and did a war dance around him that 

 would have done credit to an Apache 

 Indian. I shouted and whistled, and at last 

 when I oarae to my senses I was shaking 

 like a leaf. I tried to hold him out at 

 arm's length, but of course I couldn't do 

 that. I estimated he would weigh at least 

 15 pounds. He did. I threw him over my 

 shoulder and started for the boat. When I 

 reached it I laid him carefully on the seat 

 and, shoving off, started for the decoys. 

 At that particular moment no boy under the 

 sun could possibly have been happier than 

 I. It was no use for me to shoot any more 

 that morning. I was too happy to shoot. 



I sat down at the oars and pulled across 



the pond to the blind. The goose lay in 

 the stern and do what I mifht I couldn't 

 keep my eyes away from him. I was ex- 

 amining him with the utmost care when 

 something caught my eye and I stopped 

 rowing. My heart seemed to come into 

 my mouth. Pull' if; in the oars, I sat a 

 moment like a st. tue ; then, getting up, I 

 leaned forward almost mechanically, 

 picked up the bird and spread his huge 

 wings across the seat. Om: was huge, but, 

 ialas ! the other did not mc.tch it. I looked 

 at him a moment, and great tears filled my 

 eyes, rolling down my cheeks and splash- 

 ing over my jacket. I choked back the 

 sobs and looked again. Yes, it was all too 

 true, and it flashed on my mind in an in- 

 stant. Why hadn't the other geese flown 

 off? I knew the reason now; for all, with 

 the exception of the 3 that took wing, 

 were like the bird I had killed — and one 

 of his wings was clipped! 



TWILIGHT. 



JOHN T. G00LRICK, JR. 



Just as the day is ending, 



When the sun in its glory has set, 

 And the shadows have covered the 

 meadow 



That the dew is beginning to wet ; 

 When the low of the cow has subsided, 



And the bleat of the lamb is still. 

 There's an hour, calm, quiet and peaceful 



Through the valley, the wood and the 

 hill. 



The frog in the marsh is croaking 



His song to a lily leaf nigh ; 

 From their beds in the grass and the clover 



The lightning bugs silently fly. 

 The katydid, high in the treetop, 



Is singing a song to his love, 

 And the hoot owl, with sad, solemn voice, 



Is calling his mate from above. 



The cricket is chirruping gaily 



From his home by the side of the road ; 

 And the lark, in notes that enrapture, 



Is singing an evening ode. 

 The light of the day is fleeting, 



In the van of the conqueror, Night; 

 And just where the land is neutral, 



Is the sweetest of hours, twilight. 



"Am I a part orphan now?" asked the 

 chick of the hen. 



"What do you mean?" inquired the hen. 



"The incubator was burned last night," 

 answered the chick, — N. Y. Herald. 



