The days passed thus until they lengthened into a week. Though Bobby was
content enough, it was but natural that he should be a bit lonesome now
and again, and eagerly wish the fortnight gone that yet must pass
before the return of the seal hunters.
The wild geese and ducks were still in flight, coming in great flocks
from the lakes of the vast unknown interior and from the farther north,
on their way to milder southern climes. There were several marshes near
Abel's Bay where the migrating flocks tarried for a time to rest and
feed, and of mornings they would pass with a great roar of wings and
loud honking from the bay to these marshes, and at night they would
return.
It was Bobby's custom morning and night to lie in wait for them with his
shotgun, and he always returned to the cabin with as many birds as he
could carry. These were hung in the entrance shed of the cabin, where
they would freeze and remain fresh and good until needed for the table.
And thus he too was doing his part in providing for the long winter
which was at hand.
The goose-hunting season was always one of great sport for Bobby, but
this year he found it lonesome enough without Jimmy's company. It was
this loneliness, no doubt, that prompted him, one morning in the
beginning of the second week after the departure of the seal hunters, to
take Abel Zachariah's old skiff and pull far down the bay in the hope
that he might kill a seal on his own account. It was a gray day, with
leaden clouds hanging low.
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