8 DUCKING DAYS 



As I resume the paddle a jaeksnipe with saucy note 

 cuts overhead unseen, speeding straight for the calamus 

 stretches of the Great Slough, the only snipe ground 

 wdthin a hundred miles, and I marvel at the wonderful 

 compass in that little brain that guides him so un- 

 erringly. Somewhere out on the pond a black duck 

 sounds an alarm note and a flock of golden eyes jump' for 

 a short spin on ringing wings and I hear them plough 

 in again at no great distance. Though the fusillade has 

 put the fowl on the qui vive they will not fly in the fog. 

 As I scull slowly along, now without the slightest idea 

 of direction, the faintest of zephyrs starts the heavy 

 vapor to writhing and twisting like the tenuous folds of 

 some fairy fabric and with the very surface obscured at 

 arm's length as with the steam from a vast caldron, one 

 has the sensation of being afloat in midair, so complete 

 is the illusion with nothing visible above or below. 



A sudden flacker of wings and there were a dozen 

 broadbill melting like phantoms behind the veil. I had 

 run by the flock within a paddle's length when some 

 sharp-eyed member descrying the moving blade at the 

 stem had lit out in a hurry. They barely clear the 

 water in making otf and will not go far. In fact, the 

 splash of their alighting is plainly audible in a moment, 

 and a half turn heads the craft their way. By good 

 luck a current of air now began to lessen the low visi- 

 bility somewhat and at 20 yards the game loomed dimly 



