“Here’s the place for rabbits,” said Bart, “if there are any.” “If there are any! Of course,” said Bruce; “that’s the point.” They walked on through the brush-wood, and at length, reaching a mossy knoll, they sat down to rest. After a time, Bart started off alone to pursue his investigations. He had not gone far before he stopped, and shrunk back. Then he looked around with a triumphant expression. Then he moved forward in a stealthy manner. “I wonder what’s up now,” said Bruce. “Bart’s found something at last,” said Arthur. “A hare, perhaps,” said Tom. The three boys started after Bart. Scarcely had they moved a half dozen paces, when Bart took aim and fired. A loud cry was heard, a large white bird was seen jumping in the air, and falling to the ground, and then Bart ran forward and secured his prize. The other boys hurried up to him. As they came, he turned to meet them, with a face flushed with triumph, and holding the large white bird by the legs. “What is it?” they cried. “A wild goose,” said Bart. “A wild goose!” cried Bruce, who had reached him by that time. “A tame one you mean.” “No it isn’t, either. How can it be a tame one? It’s a wild one.” “No, Bart,” said Arthur, “it’s a tame goose--as tame as I am.” “You’re a tame goose yourself,” said Bart. “Do you call that a tame goose? Why, it’s a wild one, of course. Look at its wings.” “What about its wings? They’re tame enough. No, Bart, it’s the real original domestic goose of the civilized farm-yard.” “Nonsense! as though I don’t know a tame goose when I see one.” “Well, you see one now.” “No, I don’t.” “This is one.” “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “It is.” “Pooh!” “Bart,” said Bruce, “did you ever see a live wild goose?” “No, I never did.” “Aha! How do you know anything about them, then?” “Why, I’ve seen pictures,--lots of thorn,--and they look just like this.” “But I’ve seen wild geese living and flying,--and dead, too, lots of times,--and this isn’t one.” “O, this is a kind that you are not acquainted with. Why, there are ever so many kinds of wild geese.” But at this moment the boys were rudely interrupted. “Aha! ye thafes of the wurruld, ye!” cried a loud voice close beside them. “Ye villains, ye. What are ye doin’,--a murdherin’ and slaughterin’ a poor man’s property. Ye blackgyards, ye! What d’ye mane by comin’ here and shootin’ my geese?” Thunderstruck at this unexpected interruption, the boys turned, and found themselves face to face with an old, grizzled, red-faced little Irishman, whose furious gestures and angry eyes were directed menacingly toward them. “Which af ye’s shot my goose?” he roared. “1 did,” said Bart, quietly. “Ye young villain! I’ll make ye pay for it,--and dear, too,--as sure as me name’s Denny O’Rafferty. What’r ye’s doin’ here, any how? What d’ye mane by shootin’ my goose? D’ye think I’m goin’ to be robbed be a gang of black-gyards? Be the powers! if ye think that same, ye’ll find ye’re mistaken, bad scran till ye!”