46 



AN EVENING IN JANUARY. 

 By a Member. 



It was not an ideal evening for duck shooting. The moon 

 was late in rising-, and the bitter East wind made the frost seem 

 twice as severe as it really was. However there was no question 

 of postponing the enterprise, so off I started about 3 o'clock in 

 the afternoon, carrying double the ordinary weight of clothes 

 and two thick pairs of stockings to protect the extremities. It 

 was just on the verge of sunset when the meadows came into 

 view, their rich velvet green slightly paled by a three days' 

 north-easter, and the swollen flow of the stream through their 

 midst appearing to a distant eye the only sign of life. 



Presently the approach is made, and two No. 6's are slipped 

 into the breech in the hope of a shot at plover. And sure 

 enough there they are, hundreds upon hundreds of them, a 

 mixed multitude of golden plover and lapwings, resting almost 

 motionless on the watery meadow, as is their wont, and all 

 turned towards the glow of the setting sun. But alas ! they are 

 some 150 yards the other side of the stream, and there is no 

 cover between us, so I judge it best to take up my position at 

 once in the well known hiding place, the middle of a thick 

 hedge abutting on the floods. 



Then begins the pleasure of the evening. Scarcely has the 

 friendly pipe been lit, and the coat tightly buttoned up against 

 the fitful blast, when I hear what can only be the whole flock of 

 plover taken to wing for their evening constitutional. It is a 

 once-heard-never-to-be- forgotten sound, that muffled lap of the 

 plovers' flight like the congregating of sheep at the dog's ap- 

 proach. I am on the alert at once. In the course of their evolutions 

 they are more than likely to pass my way. And presently I can 

 see them coming, a dark trembling army of wings sending forth 

 at intervals the timid " pee-wit " of the green plover or the low 

 sad whistle of the golden. Ten seconds mere ! . Now they are 

 nearly overhead ! Ping ! Ping ! and the flock are once more 

 scattered. Ping ! a stray bird flies past in confusion. I pick 



