by Farley Mowat
Led by Mutt and Rex we waded through acres of reeds and rushes, constantly assailed by belligerent red-winged and yellow-headed blackbirds claiming nesting territories. Muskrat houses freshly crowned with steaming layers of swamp muck stood like miniature islands amongst the reeds, and a pair of coots or grebes seemed to be nesting on top of every one. Marsh wrens were weaving their hanging nests on cat-tail stems, and unseen sora rails yammered at us for trespassing on their watery tun.
Tired out we at last straggled homeward, but had to halt while Rex excavated some hillocks of black mud heaped up by pocket gophers. He uncovered none of the secretive mammals themselves, but did reveal hundreds of big tiger salamanders, eight and nine inches long, who were using the burrows as way-stations on their journey to the slough to spawn.
It was late afternoon by the time we flung ourselves down beside our tent. The emerald-leafing poplars overhead were alive with waves of warblers and other small fry avidly competing for the first emerging insects. Interspersed among them was the azure blaze of mountain bluebirds, the orange challenge of orioles, and the flame of rose-breasted grosbeaks.
By then we were too tired and too surfeited with this abundance of living things to pay much attention. When a long skein of sandhill cranes flew low overhead, trumpeting their sonorous refrain, I did look up, but only briefly. Then I lay back in the cotton snow and closed my eyes.
“Hey, Brucie,” I said sleepily. “We’ve sure seen an eyeful today. You think we’ll ever see anything like it again?” Bruce was sucking on a straw. He took it out and threw it away.
“Maybe, yeah. I guess so, if we’re lucky.”
We were not to be that lucky. I doubt if anyone else ever will be either. I think it is too late.
SIX DAYS LATER Eardlie came puttering up to our campsite. The tent was already down and everything was packed. We loaded the gear aboard the little car.
And it was here, at this time and in this place, that I really said goodbye to the prairies; to Bruce and Murray; to Mutt and Wol; and to all the Others with whom I had lived the happiest and, it may be, the best years of my life.
FARLEY MOWAT was born in Belleville, Ontario, in 1921. He began writing upon his return from serving in World War II
and has since written 44 books, which have sold nearly 25 mil-
lion copies in more than 60 countries. He spent much of his youth in Saskatoon and has lived in Ontario, Cape Breton
and Newfoundland, while travelling frequently to Canada’s
far north. Throughout, Mowat has remained a determined environmentalist, despairing at the ceaseless work of human cruelty. His ability to capture the tragic comedy of life on earth has made him a national treasure in Canada and a beloved storyteller to readers around the world. He lives in Port Hope, Ontario.
THE DOUGLAS & MCINTYRE
FARLEY MOWAT LIBRARY
Aftermath
And No Birds Sang
Born Naked
The Desperate People
The Farfarers
My Father’s Son
High Latitudes
No Man’s River
People of the Deer
Sea of Slaughter
The Snow Walker
Westviking
A Whale for the Killing