FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF A DUNLIN. 23 
The two survivors flew shrieking over my head. For a moment I was too 
horrified to move. 
“Not bad that for a start,’ said one of the butchers; and then, while the 
man with the sack gathered up the victims, he began advancing towards the 
bank on which I crouched. Remembering that I was not worth a cartridge, I 
rose with a confident “peep.” Bang! bang! went the gun on an instant; a 
hail of shots swept by me. Three of my long pinions were cut in two; a toe 
was severed from my right foot, and a third shot whizzed through the feathers 
of my breast. Still no vital spot was touched, and I tore away amidst the 
curses of the shooter and the derisive laughter of his friends. 
What could father have been thinking of? These men spare anything ? 
Not they! They were shooting neither for the pot nor the cabinet; their aim 
was a colossal bag! And now from a distant sandbank I watched them form 
in long line across the estuary. Off they started, driving all the birds before 
them in a terrified and frantic mob. No living thing came amiss to their 
sportsmanship. Terns, Redshanks, Turnstones, Knots, Plovers, Dunlins, one 
after the other sank into the mud. A sheep feeding at the edge of the saltings 
received a pellet through the fleshy part of its nose; an old mussel-seeker 
similarly peppered in the lumbar regions, as he bent over his work, straight- 
ened himself with language that would have made a self-respecting Dunlin 
blush; a man on board a tug, who ventured to remonstrate, was told that he 
himself would be the next victim if he didn’t go below. He went and he 
stayed there! Quid enim facis cum furiosus cogit et idem fortior? The end 
came at length; the place became a wilderness, hardly a bird in the same 
parish, and these few as wild as Hawks. The butchers counted up their bag, 
one hundred and thirty odd—whether rare or common they knew not, neither 
did they care; they had broken their record. They left the estuary; they 
could sleep the sleep of the just. 
I did not expect to see any of my family again after that dreadful day, but 
our liking for outlying drains and pools had proved our salvation; we had just 
kept clear of their beat, and we gathered together in the evening and 
sorrowfully discussed the events of the day. Odd guns now frequented the 
mudflats every morning, but, as father had prophesied, we single Dunlin seemed 
to be contemned by all. Once I was surprised by a shooter with glasses, and 
had to rise in front of him. He was going to fire, but fortunately I 
remembered father’s advice, and just got out a hurried “peep” in time. The 
gun was lowered, and feeling that I was being examined through the glasses, 
I flew slowly so as to give a full view of my plumage. The collector at last 
turned his back. Thank goodness, he was satisfied—and so was I. 
