game at all, and what there is isn't worth shooting. Little bits of things; it's painful to see them.”
Meliton laughed and waved his hand.
“What's happening all over this world makes me laugh. The birds have gone off the rails; they sit so late that some haven't hatched out by Peter's Day.”
“All things go the same way,” said the shepherd, lifting his face. “Last year game birds were scarce, this year they're scarcer still, and in five years to come—mark my words — there won't be one left! Not only no game, but no birds of any kind.”
“That's true,” said Meliton thoughtfully. “That's true!”
The shepherd laughed bitterly and shook his head.
“It's a miracle!” he said. “What has become of them all? Twenty years gone by, I remember, there were geese and cranes, ducks and grouse—flocks upon flocks of them! I remember; the squire and his friends would come down and shoot, and all you could hear all day was pu, pu, pu, pu, pu! Plover and snipe without end to them, and little teals and woodcock as common as starlings—or sparrows, if you will. No end to them! Where are they gone? Even the birds of prey are gone! Gone are the eagles and the hawks and the owls. . . . Beasts of all sorts are few. The wolf and the fox are rare sights to-day, not to' mention bears and otters. And in those days there were elks. Forty
