"They
sometimes fly by night."
"Not on such a cold night in such a wind," Tom replied.
Soon we heard the same sounds again.
"That's an old gander, sure," Tom admitted.
"Seems to come from the same place," Addison remarked. "Out on Papoose
Pond, I guess."
"Yes, siree!" Tom exclaimed. "A flock of geese has come down on that
pond. If I had my gun, I could get a goose. But my gun is in Wild
Brook," he added regretfully. "I let go of it when I fell in."
The squalling continued at intervals. The night was so boisterous,
however, that we did not leave the camp and after a time fell asleep in
the old bunk.
The cold waked me soon after daybreak. Tom and Addison were still
asleep, with their coats pulled snugly about their shoulders and their
feet drawn up. I rekindled the fire and clattered round the stove. Still
they snoozed on; and soon afterwards, hearing the same squalling sounds
again, I stole forth in the bleak dawn to see what I could discover.
When I had pushed through the swamp of thick cedar that lay between the
camp and the pond, I beheld a goose flapping its wings and squalling
scarcely more than a stone's throw away.
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