HARK, that is more than Wild Geese going south,
That cry from a cloud at the autumn's sunset edge,
As keen as the word in a lonely prophet's mouth —
It is promise and pledge!
THEY will return, they will break on the old earth's grieving
With clear, sweet clamor, prevailing on and on;
And they will be more than a wedge of wild birds cleaving
Home thru an April dawn.
(Nancy Turner)
September mist was dense when I stowed snipe decoys and gun in the little "cat", eased sheets and edged slowly across Shinnecock Bay toward the "Hole-in-the-wall." A slight bow wave rippled faintly, the only sound in this gray world. There was no compass so I had to trust that the light offshore wind would hold true. A casual touch on the tiller kept the boat on its course while I lolled on the cockpit seat, smoking the morning pipe and then — Action front!
In the void ahead sounded Honk — ee — honk — honk! That wild weird call which thrills me even now, forty years later. Geese! The thot shot thru me that it was early in the season for these lordly birds but — there they were, big as ostriches, starting to flap away before the oncoming craft.
Bang! BANG! — and I had a monster in the boat. It was a CANADA all right, yet while I gloated a little ghost of doubt dampened my excitement. Didn't Lane have some tame Geese decoys and maybe — anyway I went on over to the snipe blind and set out the wooden dummies.
'Long about ten o'clock young Lane sauntered over from his stand, glanced into the cockpit and remarked:
"See you've downed one of the old man's Geese. Always told him he better not let 'em run loose or some dam' fool'd nip 'em."
Fog frequently demoralizes their sense of direction and the leader of a flock almost knocked me down (would have if I hadn't ducked) on a Long Island ridge.
Another weird memory is a flock which drove by our schooner while we hove to in a nor'easter on Georges Bank, in November. Out of scud they appeared for a moment and passed, going well over one hundred miles an hour.
It is probable that they mate for life and are model parents. The gander will fight anything which menaces his home and even when in late summer the female is unable to fly, her care of the youngsters does not relax. They are altogether admirable and I am glad the old shooting mania has long since left me. To lure them to destruction with anchored live birds always seemed a lowdown trick.
Their dark forms belong against the sunset sky or blue heaven — not fluttering in death throes before a blind.
North America.