47 



up four, not very man)', but after all they were rather high. 

 Back again to the lair, and another wait — this time for nobler 

 quarry. 



The duck rarely come in till an hour after sunset, so there is 

 still time to fall under the fascination of the strange sounds that 

 from time to time punctuate the low monotonous soughing of 

 the wind. Now it is the swish of homeward starlings, flying 

 rapidly in extended formation to the woods; now the lightning 

 descent of snipe from the uplands, sounding for all the world 

 like rockets ; now the alarm cry of a blackbird only a few feet 

 off, resenting the unwonted intrusion of a stranger to his 

 roosting place ; now the last deep caw of some late returning 

 crow, first bird to rise and last to go to rest. And even when 

 these are still, there are the busy wagtails walking along the 

 edge of the water, seemingly lamenting the all too short January 

 daylight. 



But all this time it has been getting dark. The air seems 

 keener, and my feet, more and more numbed with cold, suggest 

 that the keen-scented mallard may arrive now at any moment, 

 and drop into his well-known haunt under the willow about 70 

 yards to windward. . . . Hark ! surely the sound of wings ? I 

 listen again ! Yes, there is no mistaking the well known 

 metallic ring of the duck's flight, similar only, so far as I know, 

 to that of the pigeon tribe. At once every sense is on the alert. 

 Nearer and nearer they come : then just one premonitory quack ! 

 and down swoop three heavy bodies with a startling splash right 

 under the willlow. So far so good. Now begins the torture. 

 Will they come up stream into shot or stay where they are? 

 Five minutes anxious waiting. No, they are still under the 

 willow, flapping and splashing with most tantalising vigour; 

 and already two more have joined them from the opposite side. 

 Clearly there is nothing for it but to stalk. Slowly and quietly 

 I steal out of the hedge, then drop on hands and knees, and 

 take a short detour so as to approach them straight up the 

 wind. Twenty yards to the good ! I begin to flatter myself 

 that a light brown Norfolk suit renders me undistinguishable 

 from the background. Now I am within 50 or 55 yards of the 

 pool — as far as it is safe to go. Out come the binoculars, and 

 the little group of black lumps is easily discerned from surround- 

 ing objects by their moving about. The spot is marked, but 



