Except for collecting, I outgrew the shotgun at an early age. Its successor was a 22 cal. Colts repeater. One snowy December day I scanned the South Beach from behind a dune and saw — just on the limit of vision edge — four large white birds.

The tide was low and the birds scarcely within range so I dropped like Deadwood Dick on an Indian's trail and ran behind the sand ramparts until opposite the unsuspecting quartet. I slid the rifle between a tuft of beach grass — and the nearest bird collapsed with scarcely a wing flutter. I paced the distance — 225 feet — far enuf for a 22 pellett. The quarry was a fine mature SNOW GOOSE and its mounted form soon helped to fill my already over-crowded room, much to the dismay of my mother whose Scotch idea of cleanliness compelled her to dust the numerous specimens every week!

The other three apparitions disappeared in the storm, soundlessly; and without the tangible evidence at my feet of the victim with a broken neck, I could have believed the birds had been ghost stragglers from Hudson Bay on their way to the Chesapeake.