Out of the south, from every tangent, flocks of geese were calling, and Valiant and his comrades, slanting down in happy weariness toward the sweet water, gave tongue to that quickened measure which celebrates the end of a night flight. It is a poor thing, this translation, since it cannot hope to capture that bright resonance which is in bells, trumpets, bugles, and the throat of the flock. You must think of the geese as you read it, and it may be that some echo of the song will ring for you. Hark! The wind sings! The sky wakes! i Dawn! The red dawn! The wet breeze! Mark! The green fields! The blue lakes! Mark! The white stream! The black trees! Flocks that follow! Hark! O hark! Ware the hollow! Mark! O mark! j So they came at sunrise to the lake that is known, to many of the waterfowl, as Lake-That-Is-Far-Enough.
It was awake with the wind, and all its waves were tipped with foam. These midget combers, in their multitude, contrived a deep, sustained voice that traveled far across the prairie, and Valiant, riding with his comrades, midway of the tossing waters, thought it as fine a sound as any tide might utter, and waved his wings and shouted. For that matter, the lake was clamorous With the babel of many species, and at a glance one saw a dozen companies winging low over its fretted surface, or setting their wings to settle, or curving cleanly down from distant flight.
Feigning fear, or in sheer joyousness, a thousand birds would take wing as one with a roar like a river in spate-circling Lake-That-Is-Far-Enough, speeding into dimness across the prairie, wheeling, driving back again, growing larger and swiftly larger, until the rapid whish-whish-whish of playful wings passed briefly overhead and they dropped again to the lake! These were ducks, and it is in such manner that they play. The males were bright in bridal plumage, so bright that lustrous greens and blues, and flame reds, and ebony, flashed as the rich colors kindled in the sun.
And they, and all the other birds, from the plover racing over the turf to the huge, white swans cruising in on the south* wind, made talk of April. Pair by pair the ducks diverged from the flocks and loitered companionably shoreward, or left the lake and their fellows, on roving wings, to find some lone little slough of their own. And on the shore the freckled bittern trod, like some lovesick yokel, an awkward measure for his lady. At Lake-That-Is-Far-Enough the Old One bade them tarry for a time, though his fancy was yet fixed on a land far to northward.
About this Author
David is the author of many articles including Best Friend Quotes and also the author of Best life quotes
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