Whir! and they float from the startled sight—
And the forest is silent, the air is still.
Crushing the leaves ’neath our careless feet,
Snapping the twigs with a heavy tread,
Dreamy October is late and sweet,
And stooping we gather a blossom dead;
Boom! and our heart has a thunderous beat
As the gray apparition flits overhead.
—Alonzo Teall Worden.
“I will read you his story, written by a Wise Man of Massachusetts who knows the game-birds from all sides.”