THE STORY OF A WILD GOOSE.

Two years ago, one evening, while I was returning home from an unsuccessful shooting excursion along the Atlantic shore, I observed a flock of wild geese coming toward me, but sailing high. I stood perfectly still, and when the flock was directly overhead I aimed and fired.

In the twilight I could see the flock scattering at the report, and a bird wheeling downward with one wing limp and useless. He landed on a patch of plowed ground with a thud and lay half stunned. In a moment I had secured my prize.

It was a large gander in prime condition, with a full, deep body, and healthy, lustrous feathers, and I determined to spare his life.

I quickly tied his legs and fastened the uninjured wing. Then, carefully lifting the bird and getting the broken limb into as comfortable a position as possible, I carried him home. Most sportsmen have a crude knowledge of surgery, and I soon had the broken member bandaged with splints and strips of cotton and my captive resting comfortably, unbound, in a warm outhouse.

In the morning, when I went out to feed him, he was walking around lively enough, and, although, of course, very shy and timid, he ate a hearty breakfast of corn as soon as he thought himself unobserved. In a few days he grew tame enough to allow me to stroke him with a bit of stick. It was long before he would suffer himself to be touched by the human hand.

After some months the bird would answer to his name, Michael, would eat out of my hand, and when I let him out into the yard, after clipping his wings, would follow me around like a dog. He invariably fled at the approach of a stranger, but he never "hissed" like a domestic goose. Strange to say, although a flock of domestic geese was kept by a neighbor, he never paid the slightest attention to their cries and calls.

After a time I allowed him to roam the fields at will. At night he returned without fail to his pen. I became much attached to the bird, so much so that goose shooting became distasteful to me and I discontinued the practice.

Last spring I received a letter from a particular friend requesting me to secure a wild goose for him. For various reasons I could not well refuse, so I at once made arrangements for a shooting excursion. In the midst of my preparations it occurred to me that I might employ Michael as a decoy to lure the geese within gunshot. Sometimes a domestic goose is used for this purpose, but seldom with complete success. The wild goose is an intelligent bird, and rarely places implicit confidence in his domesticated relative.

In a secluded bight some miles down the coast I moored a small raft near shore and tethered Michael to it by a stout string fastened to his leg. His wings by this time had grown to the length they possessed before being clipped, and the injured limb was as strong as ever.

Michael seemed well pleased with his situation, stretched his wings a few times as if the salt breath of the ocean stirred half-buried memories, but on finding himself secured settled down comfortably on the raft and calmly preened his gray feathers.

I carefully screened myself behind a clump of scrub spruce and placed some spare cartridges conveniently near. I thought that if a passing flock should approach fairly near I might be able to fire a successful second shot if the first proved a miss.

After a wait of perhaps an hour I heard in the distance a faint "honk" that quickened the heartbeats. Michael also heard it, and ceasing to arrange his feathers, raised his head to listen eagerly. I watched him closely. His neck was proudly arched and his eyes glistened with excitement as he stepped as near the edge of the raft as his tether would allow.

Presently another "honk" dropped from the distant blue, and away to the south I could descry a large V-shaped flock flying fairly low, but altogether too much to the left of my position to render possible a successful shot.

It was now time for Michael to make himself heard, and I was beginning to grow somewhat uneasy at his silence, when all at once—"honk! honk!"—his joyous invitation sped up to the ears of the watchful leader of the air travelers.

"Honk?" queried that wary veteran suspiciously, but at once he slackened his pace somewhat.

"Honk! honk!" called Michael reassuringly; "honk! honk!" he repeated coaxingly.

For a moment the old leader seemed to hesitate, then slowly he turned in my direction, and presently the flock was sailing directly toward me.

My rifle was ready and in position. I was well screened by the bushes. The light was admirable. Everything was favorable to a good shot. In five minutes the flock was within range. Michael had uttered several invitations during this time in reply to short interrogations from the leader, but he had suddenly relapsed into silence. He could see the approaching birds and was gazing at them with intense eagerness. My finger was on the trigger, when all at once, to my amazement, Michael pealed out a strange cry, loud and shrill, utterly unlike any sound that I had ever heard him utter.

It was the note of danger, the alarm signal of the wild goose. The effect on the approaching flock was electrical. The leader instantly turned and sped away with arrow-like swiftness, closely followed by his feathered retinue, leaving me motionless with surprise.

When my captive first heard the calls of his comrades he instinctively answered with notes of invitation. The excitement of hearing and seeing his own kindred made him forget the danger that he was leading them into, but as they approached he seemed all at once to realize the situation. He knew that red death lurked behind the seemingly innocent shrubbery close at hand. Perhaps the memory of his own sharp wound sprang into his mind. At all events, although he knew that to utter the warning cry would debar himself from the companionship of his kind, he unhesitatingly gave that warning with no uncertain sound.

I laid down my rifle and pulled the raft in to the shore. Michael was standing at the limit of his tether, gazing after his retreating friends.

As the raft moved he sprang into the air, only to be jerked back by the restraining cord. I untied the string from the raft and drew the bird toward me. He submitted to my caresses, but I guessed how earnestly he longed to soar away after his kindred. He had saved some of them from death or captivity; they were free to roam the clear air of heaven while he——

I quickly untied the string from Michael's leg and gently pushed the bird from me. Instantly he spread his wings and sprang upward. With eager neck outstretched he swept rapidly after the vanishing flock, uttering hearty "honks" of jubilation.

I felt that he was worthy of liberty.