THE DABCHICK
At some time in the summer—perhaps when it was riesting or exploring the reed-fringed pond—an accident befell the dabchick. A pike may have risen to it and the bird may have escaped with a damaged wing, or it may have been maimed by some over-eager boy with a four-ten who thought he was shooting a mal- lard. Whatever happened, the dabchick 'found itself unable to leave for other waters. It could rise and make a circle, but its ability to remain airborne was very restricted, and in conse- quence it was forced to become a resident of the pond—the only resident. Sometimes a few mallard alight at dusk but they never stay. Flights of waterbirds pass overhead, but even the moorhen that was there in midsummer has gone, to seek less-exposed ditches and drains. I have seen the dabchick at least a dozen times. It is a sad thing, and makes me think it would have been better had it fallen to the hungry pike or received the charge from the boy's gun in some vital spot, for there is no more 'pathetic sight than that of a crippled bird haunting a lonely patch of dark water.
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