WILDFOWLING IN MILD WEATHER. 253 



came over the night, which completely altered our prospects 

 and reduced the chance of success to zero. About half-past 

 five we noticed a slight haze beginning to rise off the water, 

 which gradually and rapidly increased in density. Spreading 

 over the face of the heavens, in half an hour it obscured moon 

 and stars, and enveloped us in hopeless darkness. We were 

 now in the best of the feeding-grounds, and amidst the 

 gloom we heard around us at intervals the enticing " talk " 

 of both Mallard and Wigeon, and anon the strange hoarse 

 bark of the Sheld-Duck. But not a fowl could we see. We 

 groped about helplessly, hopelessly, amidst that Cimmerian 

 darkness, while the prizes of our hopes were plentifully in 

 evidence around. 



About the period when (by the almanac) daylight should 

 have appeared, we heard the clanging chorus of the Brent 

 Geese arriving in from the sea, and presently we made out a 

 small " bunch " of a score or so — an indistinct line of grey 

 dots on the grey water — some two hundred yards from us. 

 Geese are usually dullish fowl in the dark ; so we cautiously 

 " set " to these with renewed hopes. Dusky as it was, how- 

 ever, the geese were fully on the alert, for they rose almost 

 immediately, and, though I risked a long shot with the 

 stanchion-gun, it was not responded to. We observed, how- 

 ever, that a single goose lagged considerably behind. This 

 shot was rather disappointing, we having counted on secur- 

 ing a couple or more. The elevation and instant of firing 

 were, I knew, both correct ; but in the fog the geese loomed 

 large, and were probably farther off" than we had calculated. 



The density of the fog relaxed a little as the sun rose, 

 and we proceeded on a cruise round the whole of the mud, 

 with the result of ascertaining that all the ducks (except a 

 few Sheld-Duck) had gone to sea at dawn. There only then 

 remained our friends the geese, to which we directed our 

 attention. Several times we advanced on their main line, 

 but with one unvarying result. Whether we paddled, 

 "poled," or sailed, the watchful fowl rose at (roughly 

 speaking) six hundred to eight hundred yards — a distance at 

 which one might suppose a gunning-punt, end on, was 

 almost invisible. Each time we noticed our " pricked " 



