Eighteen months of recuperation in a sanatorium is desperate dullness. The slnatorium was in a part of England crammed with wild-bird life. Only that made things bearable: open fields, hedgerows, little woods, rabbit warrens—places that song-birds love. The San sat on a little rise. It was a sanatorium primarily…
In Victoria’s Highland district, where roads were bad and there was little traffic, stood a tiny log cabin used by hunters in the game season. Birds loved this district, the sunny solitudes of its few scattered farms. In autumn gunmen shot over the district. I rented the cabin for…
I was visiting in Cariboo. A flock of wild geese in migration descended to feed in a grain field. Driving with two gun-lovers, I happened to pass that way, and we came upon the flock feeding. The roadway ran right alongside the field in which the wild geese were…
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