There wasanother spell of eerie quiet, and then it seemed the world was changing. The clouds were drifting apart, and Isuddenly saw a brilliant star-sown patch of sky. Then the whole horizon turned fromvelvet-black to grey, grey rimmed in the east with a strip of intense yellowlight. I looked behind me and could seethe outlines of the low coast, with blurs which I knew were woods, and with onechurch-steeple pricking fantastically into the pale brune.
It was thetime for the geese, and in an instance there were on us. They came in wedge after wedge, shadowy asghosts against the faintly flushing clouds, but cut sharp against the violetlagoon of clear sky. They were notbabbling, as they do in an evening flight from the fields to the sea, butchuckling and talking low to themselves. From the sound, I knew they were pink-foot, for the white fronts make athroatier noise. It was a sight thatalways takes my breath away, this multitude of wild living things surging outof the darkness and the deep, as steady in their discipline as a Guardsbattalion. I never wanted to shoot and Inever shot first; it was only the thunder of Samson’s 12-bore that woke me tomy job.
An old gander,which was the leading bird in one wedge, suddenly trumpeted. Him Samson got; he fell with a thud fiveyards from my head, and the echo of the shot woke the marshes for miles. It was all our bag. The birds flew pretty high, and Peter Johnhad the best chance, but no sign of life came from his trench. As soon as the geese had past, and a doublewedge of whistling widgeon had followed very high up, I walked over toinvestigate. I found my son sitting onhis mud rampart with a rapt face. “Icouldn’t shoot,” he stammered; “they were too beautiful.”
From: John Buchan, The Island Of Sheep. London, Hodder & Staughton, 1936.
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