“Oh can’t you shoot it, what feathers it must have for hats.” The origin of this remark was obvious.
“If you want feathers a yard long! Why it is nearly as large as an ostrich.”
“Well, don’t we use ostrich feathers? Oh do shoot it, I want some long white feathers.”
“It is a little too far off,” I replied.
“How far?” was the persistent inquiry.
“I should say about a mile.”
“That is the way always,” was the disgusted response, “you pretend to be great sportsmen, but you say every bird we meet is too far off. If I knew how to shoot, I wouldn’t be making excuses all the time. If we ever come to Florida again, I hope we will have somebody with us who can hit his mark, and not pretend that every bird is too far off.”
At this the fair speaker retired below just as the crane disappeared over the distant trees.
It was several days after this occurrence that we saw what we took to be another whooping crane standing at the edge of the water, not far from some bushes. He was quite white, and towered up against a back ground of grass and sand-bar till his head seemed to come in line with the trees beyond, and his body to be as tall as that of a man. The yacht was slowly approaching him by the aid of a light breeze, and Mr. Green was growing more excited the nearer we came. The crane stood motionless, not alarmed at the bigger bird, which was gradually swooping down upon him, and apparently quite tame.
Mr. Green had redeemed his reputation with the rifle of late, my sarcasm about the Limpkin, and some ironical allusions from the doctor had improved his aim, so that we no longer smiled incredulously when he brought out his rifle. In fact he was a splendid shot, as his innumerable prizes taken at tournaments abundantly proved, but the motion of the yacht had at first unsettled his aim. There was not more than half a mile between us and the bird,