A hunter shot a flock of geese
that flew within his
reach.
Two were stopped in their rapid flight
and fell on the sandy beach.
The
male bird lay at water's edge
and just before he died,
He faintly called to his
wounded mate
as she dragged herself to his side.
She bent her head and crooned
to him
in a way distressed and mild,
Caressing her one and only mate
as a mother
would a child.
Then covering him with her broken wing
and gasping with failing
breath,
She laid her head against his breast,
a feeble honk...then death.
This
story is true
though crudely told,
I was the man in this case.
I stood knee deep
in snow and cold
the hot tears burned my face.
I buried the birds in the sand
where they lay,
Wrapped in my hunting coat,
And I threw my gun and belt in the
bay
when I crossed in the open boat.
Hunters will call me a right poor sport
and
scoff at the thing I did.
But that day something broke my heart,
And shoot
again? God forbid.
By Lemuel J. Ward
