Again, coming from the far north, the trumpets of the sky squadron were
sounding; they passed, wedge after wedge, sometimes in steady formation,
sometimes like a wavering band of witches, and again in shifting
battalions, sternly officered, passing through intricate aërial
maneuvers, and greeted by Uncle Dudley and the other decoys with wild
beseeching mixed with applause.
Snowy, angelic companies of swans came alternately with the geese; then
a whimpering, whispering flight of wild ducks, water-fowl in thousands
and tens of thousands, rushing onward through the aërial lanes.
But none came to the blind. Occasionally a wedge of geese wavered,
irresolute at the frantic persuasions of Uncle Dudley, but their leader
always dragged them back to their course, and the sagging, hesitating
ranks passed on.
Sometimes, in a nearer flight of swans, some long-necked, snowy creature
would bend its head to look curiously down at the tethered swans on the
water, but always they continued on, settling some two miles south of
Foaming Shoals, until there was half a mile of wild swans afloat there,
looking like a long, low bank of snow, touched with faintest pink by the
glow of the westering sun.