“Eden,” he said quietly, “you cain’t go. Bought the Refuge. ” So they set out on a twenty-eight-mile journey, an old man who knew the terrain and a young man who knew the river. For three days he would defend her, holding her gently as she went through her own difficult gyrations of moulting.
That cuts my responsibilities in half. The best young people of the river were being taken, and they had been designated for this fate by their own “What will we grow?” the foremen wanted to know. There it was, resting insolently in its chock, its heavy butt jammed into the burlap bag of pine needles, the ancient slayer of waterfowl, the perpetrator of outrage.
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