Sport

Last winter when the snows were deep,

     Mid whirling sleet and hail

I dug a hole beneath the trees

     To feed the starving quail.

They come from out the barren woods,

     From shelters far and near,

Into my orchard where they ate

     With scarcely any fear.

Poor creatures, weak, a helpless band,

Dependent on the human hand.

‘Tis autumn, and the fields are ripe

     With scattered seed and grain;

Bob White across the mellow marsh

     Pipes up his glad refrain.

My neighbor takes his gun in hand,

     As if the gods to mock,

And with a quick, unnerving aim,

     Pours death into the flock.

And as I hear the dank report,

I wonder at the soul of “sport”.

c. Oct. 1916