[XVIII]
MR. WILD GOOSE AND MRS. GREBE
Far, far out on a great prairie there is a wide river which flows lazily between its banks, apparently going nowhere at all, but in reality bearing steadily toward the rising sun and the deep valley where another river rolls mightily to the southward and the ocean. The prairie is not level like a floor, but rises and falls in ridges that are sometimes miles apart, and between these rolling heights of the grassy land are unnumbered little lakes: bodies of sparkling water hidden in the folds of the land.
It was over this vast stretch of plains that the great birds of the Arctic were winging their way one early morning in the late summer, for they had started to their winter quarters in good season.
"Honk, honk!" the leader of the birds kept calling; and as he trumpeted, those in the rear would answer him, for even as they flew they had much to talk of, and just now the whole flock of them were discussing the subject of breakfast.
For they had been flying ever since the peep of dawn, and had come through mists and the cold upper air, covering a hundred miles of their journey before the sun really bathed the plains in light, and they were looking for the spot which was familiar to them as a good one for breakfast.
Lower and lower they flew as the leader kept signaling to them, until at last the wedge-shaped formation in which they traveled came like a pointed kite in long, sliding descents to within a few hundred feet of the earth.
They could see, of course, all the lay of the land for many miles around; but they were particular geese, a trifle fussy as you might say, and by no means would any one of the many little lakes suit their fancy. They were flying toward one spot out of all others which could afford just what they wanted for a meal.
At last they apparently settled down to a definite direction for they ceased to describe the slanting circles, and in one long slide through the air, their wings stretched perfectly motionless, they coasted to the ground.