Hurry Hurry

"HURRY, HURRY!"

Although Ethel Wilson was born in South Africa, and published most of her stories in England, she is a truly Canadian writer. She came to Canada at the age of eight and was educated in Vancouver and England. She has traveled widely and her stories have won international fame.

Sea Island is in the mouth of the Fraser River near Vancouver.

When the mountains beyond the city are covered with snow to their base, the late afternoon light falling obliquely from the west upon the long slopes discloses new contours. For a few moments of time the austerity vanishes, and the mountains appear innocently folded in furry white. Their daily look has gone. For these few moments the slanting rays curiously discover each separate tree behind each separate tree in the infinite white forests. Then the light fades, and the familiar mountains resume their daily look again. The light has gone, but those who have seen it will remember.

As Miriam stood at the far point of Sea Island, with the wind blowing in from the west, she looked back towards the city. There was a high ground fog at the base of the mountains, and so the white flanks and peeks seemed to lie unsupported in the clear spring sky. She wished that Harry were here with her to see this sight of beauty which passed even as she looked upon it. But Harry was away, and she had come for a walk upon the dyke alone with her dogs.

It was the very day in spring that the soldier blackbirds had returned from Mexico to the marshes of the delta. Just a few had come, but in the stubble fields behind the high dyke, and in the salt marshes seawards from the dyke, and on the shallow sea, and over the sea there were thousands of other birds. No people anywhere. Just birds. The salt wind blew softly from the sea, and the two terrier dogs ran this way and that, with and against the wind. A multitude of little sandpipers ran along the wet sands as if they were on wheels. They whispered and whimpered together as they ran, stabbing with their long bills into the wet sand and running on. There was a continuous small noise of birds in the air. The terriers bore down upon the little sandpipers. The terriers ran clumsily, sinking in the marshy, blackish sand, encumbered as they ran. And the little sandpipers rose and flew low together as they fled in a cloud, animated by one enfolding spirit of motion. They settled on their sandbank, running and jabbing the wet sand with their bills. The terriers like little earnest monsters bore down upon them again in futile chase, and again the whispering cloud of birds arose. Miriam laughed at the silly hopeful dogs.

Farther out to sea were the duck and the brant and the seagulls. These strutted on the marsh-like sands, or lay upon the shallow water or flew idly above the water. Sometimes a great solitary crane arose from nowhere and flapped across the wet shore. The melancholy crane settled itself in a motionless hump, and again took its place in obscurity among stakes and rushes.

Behind the dyke where Miriam stood looking out to sea was a steep bank sloping to a shallow salt water ditch, and beyond that again, inland, lay the stubble fields of Sea Island, crossed by rough hedges. From the fields arose the first song of meadowlark, just one lark, how curious after winter to hear its authentic song again. Thousands of ducks disclosed themselves from the stubble fields, rising and flying without haste or fear to the sea.

Miriam called to the dogs and walked on along the narrow clay path at the top of the dyke. She delighted in the birds and the breeze and the featureless ocean. The dogs raced after her.

Clumps of bare twisted bushes were scattered along the edge of the path, sometimes obscuring the curving line of the dyke ahead. In a bush a few early soldier blackbirds talked to each other. Miriam stood still to listen. "Oh-kee-ree," called a blackbird. "Oh-kee-ree," answered his mate. "Oh-kee-ree," he said. "Oh-kee-ree," she answered. Then the male bird flew. His red epaulettes shone finely. What a strange note, thought Miriam, there's something sweet and something very ugly. The soldier blackbird's cry began on a clear flute's note and ended in piercing sweetness. The middle sound grated like a rusty lock. As Miriam walked on between the twisted black bushes more soldier blackbirds called and flew. Ok-kee-ree! Oh-kee-ree! Sweet and very ugly.

Suddenly she saw a strange object. Below her on the left, at the edge of the salt water ditch, there was an unlikely heap of something. Miriam stopped and looked. This thing was about the size of a tremendous hunched cat, amorphous, of a rich reddish brown. It was the rich brown