One morning I had come ashore from the net with some fish in my boat, and, going up to the tent, Glad went down to the river to clean them. In a little while I looked over the bank, and, sitting within a few feet of Glad (who was engaged with the fish, just at the edge of the water), was a grey goose, looking earnestly at this object beside him; but as Glad made no sudden movement, the goose seemed to wonder whether this was alive or not. I slipped back for my gun and shot the goose, and Glad who thought somebody was shooting at him, jumped for his life, but I pointed to the dead goose and he was comforted. Philanthropists make a great mistake when they begin to comfort others through their heads. Let them begin at their stomachs, which makes straighter and quicker work. [Illustration: "GUN-SHOCK"--"GOOSE-COMFORT"] We were still three or four days away from our self-set task, when, as if by mutual agreement, the fish would not be caught, the ducks and geese took flight south, and the chickens left our vicinity. To use a western phrase, "The luck was agin' us." We had started with two salt buffalo tongues as our outfit, when we left Mr. Woolsey. We had still one of these left. We boiled it, and ate half the first day of our hard luck. We worked harder and later at our ploughing the second day. We finished the tongue and ploughed on. The third day we finished our task about two o'clock, and then I took my gun and hunted until dark, while Glad gathered and hobbled the horses close to camp. Not a rabbit or duck or chicken did I see. If I had been a pagan Indian, I would have said, "Mine enemy hath done this. Somebody is working bad medicine about me." But I had long before this found out that the larder of a hunter or fisherman is apt to be empty at times. Glad and I sat beside our camp-fire that night, and were solemn and quiet. There was a something lacking in our surroundings, and we felt it keenly. For a week we had been on very short "commons," and since yesterday had not tasted any food, and worked hard. In the meantime, there is no denying it, we were terribly hungry. Early next morning we took down our tent and packed our stuff. We had neither pack nor riding-saddles, as we had come this far with William, and we had hoped that he would have returned before we were through our work; but going on the plains was going into a large country. You might strike the camp soon, or you might be weeks looking for them, and when you found the Indians, they might be in a worse condition as to provisions than you were. This all depended on the buffalo in their migrations--sometimes here, and again hundreds of miles away. William may turn up any time, and it may be a month or six weeks before we hear from him. As it is, Glad and I do the best we can without saddles, and start for home. Having the oxen, we went slow.