CHAPTER XCI 



THE RED-LEG 



As the fenmen familiarly call him, is the embodiment of the 

 spirit of the fenland — so dear to him. 



In February, when the shrewd nor'-easters blow the 

 dreary sleet and snow-storms across the sere reed-beds 

 and frost-embrowned marshlands, the quick, shrill, melan- 

 choly whistles of the red-leg may be heard ; for this wild 

 and hardiest of birds delights in the snow-storm and rain- 

 storm. No weather will stop that melancholy cry and rock- 

 ing flight, or silence that a-whew, a-ivheu', a-ivheiu, a-wJiezv^ 

 as they alight, or the more musical and wilder T-liic, T-liie, 

 T-liie. 



And so through snow-squalls and sunshine their early 

 flocks keep coming in from the North Sea, until April 

 brings the yellow king-cups. 



A little later, restless and eager, you may see them 

 pairing directly they arrive. On a fine March morning, per- 

 haps, you will see a fat female (for she is larger than the 

 male), with her spotted breast, standing upon a bare marsh- 

 wall preening her feathers, when suddenly from afar comes 

 the melancholy whistle of a black and white cock-bird, who 

 drops from the sky beside her, and begins piping softly, and 

 bowing his slender body from his hips. She, however, 

 is disdainful. Yet he perseveres with his wheet, wheet, 

 zvheet, and still she heeds him not, till, vexed, he darts at 

 her, whereupon the coy maiden runs off adown the wall. 

 And so, pricked with true love, the chase continues for 

 short stretches along the wall. Suddenly she doubles upon 



