320 BIRD-LIFE OF THE BORDERS 



of all- — on those rare occasions when climatic conditions 

 have appeared auspicious, and one has set out full of confi- 

 dence, perhaps in the course of an hour or two the whole face 

 of the heavens changes, a breeze springs up, cloud-masses 

 spin across the skies, obscuring the moon and "blacken- 

 ing" the waters — the game is up; the night's labour 

 is lost, and nothing remains but to go home to bed — 

 soaked, starved, and empty-handed. 



Perhaps the readiest means available to draw a vivid 

 picture of the vicissitudes of wildfowling by night is to 

 narrate an ideal instance as experienced during the 

 month of February. 



To begin with : — A continuous gale, blowing fresh 

 from south and west, rendered all operations afloat im- 

 possible for five whole days. Nothing could be done but 

 "loaf," smoke, and watch a falling barometer. Weary 

 days ! The gale at length subsided, and the sixth 

 evening offered fair promise of the patiently-awaited 

 opportunity : the moon, a few days past the full, shone 

 brightly, and under her silvery rays the calm waters gleam 

 "clear and white. The tide would flow at 4 a.m., so an 

 hour before midnight we launched the Boanerges, and 

 got under weigh with the first of the flood-tide. A 

 couple of miles' paddling brought us to the outskirts of 

 the ooze, and soon there was evidence of the presence 

 of the Anatidse. For miles along the dreary mud-flats 

 rang out their inspiring notes, and this in a spot where 

 by day not the ghost of a duck would be seen. Game- 

 shooters — good sportsmen, and keen too — who confine 

 their wildfowling efforts to the hours of daylight, have 

 before now returned from such a place in disgust, de- 

 claring "there was not a duck in the district." Nor is 

 there, by day, but a change comes on the scene at night. 



