That winter was cold and snowy at Walatowa, a good season for hunting. My friend Patricio and I were invigorated by the cold, crisp air as we walked to the river. We approached the river slowly and quietly, but when we drew near, the geese took off in tumult, with a frantic beating of their wings, trailing a great wake of water. It was a thrilling thing to see. Then at once I heard behind me the blast of Patricio's shotgun, and I saw one of the geese struggle and fall. I waded into the river to retrieve it, and I was disturbed to see that it was alive and stricken, but it was perfectly still. Its eyes were very bright, and it seemed to look forever after the pale angle that was dissolving in the dark sky. I cannot forget that look or the sadness that grew up in me. I carried the beautiful creature, heavy and helpless in my arms, until it died. I have lived in the close memory of that day for many years.