Then he goes to the creeks
and harbors.
Along the shore a flock of his own kind, apparently, are feeding in
quiet water. Straight in he comes with unsuspecting soul, the morning
light shining full on his white breast and bright red feet as he
steadies himself to take the water. But _bang, bang!_ go the guns; and
_splash, splash!_ fall his companions; and out of a heap of seaweed
come a man and a dog; and away he goes, sadly puzzled at the painted
things in the water, to think it all over in hunger and sorrow.
Then the weather grows cold, and a freeze-up covers all his feeding
grounds. Under his beautiful feathers the bones project to spoil the
contour of his round plump body. He is famished now; he watches the
gulls to see what they eat. When he finds out, he forgets his caution,
and roams about after stray mussels on the beach. In the spring
hunger drives him into the ponds where food is plenty--but such food!
In a week his flesh is so strong that a crow would hardly eat it.
Altogether, it is small wonder that as soon as his instinct tells him
the streams of the North are open and the trout running up, he is off
to a land of happier memories.
In summer he forgets his hardships. His life is peaceful as a meadow
brook. His home is the wilderness--on a lonely lake, it may be,
shimmering under the summer sun, or kissed into a thousand smiling
ripples by the south wind.
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