Brant

A lowflung mist deepened the gloom as we set the spritsails on our sneakboats and slipt out of the creek before a light offshore breeze. Visibility was scarcely ten yards and our objective was a stake at the entrance of Eel Grass Creek nearly one mile away. We raised it dead ahead.

"That's what I call good shootin' " — from Jim.

"Sure is — but what did you expect with real sailors at the tillers?"

"Listen to the boy — calls himself a real sailor because he uster snake codfish into a dory! — Now, if you'd been 'round the world like I've sailed and — "

"Go on, you old tarfist! Get into your sinkbox — it'll be light soon."

The game of lying in a floating coffin never allured me so I held on a quarter of a mile and "stooled out" on a point.

The mist thinned — a few faint stars twinkled overhead — faded and "found heart anew." In the silent darkness the fancy seized me with leopard spring that I was on a point in space — not upon the old familiar earth. The illusion persisted, became so real that when seven dark birds appeared against the faint eastern light and swept toward the decoys with curved wings, I never thot of the gun! — No use shooting at ghosts!

The next instant clamor filled the air — they saw me — and were a hundred yards away before I remembered the Parker. Jim hadn't forgotten, tho: I saw his gun flashes and later saw six of the fine birds in his sneak boat.

I have often watched these wary birds thru glasses while they were feeding and resting on sand flats, and was struck with their lightness and agility of foot, contrasting so strongly with the slow-moving Canada Geese that distinguishing the two is easy at any distance.