For a few days in May they were there in millions, swarming over the ground in long-reaching hordes, walking along, pecking and feeding, the rearmost flying on ahead, ever to the front.

The food they sought so eagerly now was chiefly the seeds of the slippery elm, tiny nuts showered down on wings like broad-brimmed hats.

And when the flock arose at some alarm, the sound was like that of the sea beach in a storm.
There seemed to be most pigeons in the low country southeast of the lake, of course, because, being low, it had most elms.

So Rolf took his bow and arrows, crossed in the canoe, and confidently set about gathering in a dozen or two for broilers.
It is amazing how well the game seems to gauge the range of your weapon and keep the exact safe distance.

It is marvellous how many times you may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and never kill one.