CHAPTER XC 



THE RUFF AND REEVE 



Some fine showery day in the middle of April, as you sail 

 through these sluggish water-ways, you may perchance see a 

 small bunch of birds flying against the flecked azure — birds 

 that you take at first to be red-legs ; but, upon second 

 thoughts, you notice their flight is swifter, and that they 

 glide along somewhat after the manner of a swift ; neither 

 do they call like the noisy red-leg. Then you know them 

 to be a bunch of ruffs and reeves. Perhaps there will 

 be four ruffs, with their collars half-grown, and twenty 

 reeves. The old fenmen say five reeves to a ruff, but 

 this may be or not. And perhaps — you with your glasses 

 — you will observe that they are all reeves, and never 

 a ruff. 



You watch them fly silently down to a hill — a flat, bare, 

 rushy place — for hills are J^at on the Broadland. Putting 

 your boat about, you glide back over the dark beds of hair- 

 weed, startling a spawning pike from his warm lair, and 

 running up head to wind, you lower sail behind an alder carr, 

 shove your boat up to the shore and land, stealing softly 

 along a wall that overlooks the bare stubbly marsh, their 

 favourite "hill" that you read of; but you see no stations 

 taken, no circles beaten, no eminence, and you know wel 

 there's another fanciful " truth " exploded. But watch ; there 

 are a couple of ruffs and eight reeves. See yonder on that 

 bare patch. They have their immature grey ruffs blown out 

 and they are dancing, whilst the sober-hued reeves look on 

 They do not fight, but seem to dance round as if on springs. 



