The young farmer, shouldering the stock of his double-barrelled shotgun, and sighting, squeezed off both triggers at the flock of crows rising from his field. He was discouraged to see that he had not hit even one of them, though the sun was momentarily obscured and the sky became dark as a storm of feathers fell all around him, and each feather that fell to ground, was, he realised, a tale that had to be told.