Fall 1961 • Vol. XXIII No. 4 FictionOctober 1, 1961 |

Rare and Precious Wares

All right, maybe this marsh isn't much of a Reserve, only a few thousand acres of grassland and much of it poor nest-brood cover at that, but it's the last of its kind in the state and so long as I'm in charge there better be no more smart alecks tromping through here. Because just last week, one day spang in the middle of spring, instead of mating and increasing the species they were flushed—the birds, prairie chickens (pinnated grouse), some of the precious few we've got left on the Reserve. And a couple more such damn' fools butting in there won't be any chickens left, in Wisconsin or Canada or anywhere. So I'm passing the word along, sort of posting the Reserve in case any of you decide to come stomping through here and foul up the population—and that's no pun, son. Because while we conservation people don't use weapons, we've got ways, like a few right traps set in a few wrong places. So just you listen here. Oh, not that the state can't officially tell you what all wen

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