A hunter shot a flock of geese that flew within his reach. Two were stopped in rapid flight and fell on a sandy beach. The wounded bird lay dying and just before he died he faintly called to his wounded mate and she dragged herself to his side. She bent her head and crooned to him in a way distressed and wild, caressing her one and only mate as a mother would a child.
Then, covering him with her broken wing and gasping for failing breath, she lay her head against his breast, the feeble home, then death.
The story is true, though crudely told. I was the man in this case. I stood in knee deep in drizzle and cold and 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 bag in the bay I crossed in the open boat.
Some hunters would call me a right poor sport and scoff at the things that I did.
But something broke in my heart that day ? and shoot again?God forbid!
No human being, past the thoughtless age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature which holds its life by the same tenure that he does.
- Henry David Thoreau 1817-1862
