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FLIGHTING. 41 
my eyes than the fattest Mallard or the most delicious Teal. As the light 
begins to wane, we separate and ensconce ourselves, clad in khaki-coloured 
habiliments, in some holes in the bank that divides the fresh marshes from the 
estuary and the shore. Soona spirit of unrest seems to come over the birds. 
Such as have hitherto remained unapproachable on the preserved fresh marsh 
inside the bank, now begin to get on the move. We hear those sprites of 
darkness, the Common Sandpipers, shrieking along the ditches, and the 
*“peeweet ” of the Lapwing echoes incessantly through the gloom. 
These we care little about, but perhaps a Dusky Redshank, or, may be, a 
Wood Sandpiper, is tempted forth to cross the estuary and visit another fresh 
marsh on the far side, and we make a hurried rush behind the bank to 
circumvent it, while, if we turn our eyes seawards, party after party of Gulls, 
numbering as a rule about half a dozen, come stealing up mysteriously out of 
the grey, and vanish again in a minute in the direction of their nightly stand. 
We scan each party as it passes on the off-chance of it containing a Little 
Gull or a Sabine. 
“What on earth are those two Wheatears up to?’’ comes in a stage 
whisper from the next shelter, where gun Number Two lies concealed; and I 
look with interest at two birds of this species, which are apparently making 
darts at something on the ground just in front of us. At first I think they 
must be catching moths after the manner of Stone Curlews, but soon they 
reach a streak of moonlight, and I am astonished to see that they are engaged 
in mobbing a Weasel. The creature, which has probably scented us, takes a 
series of short runs, after which it halts with uplifted head, and each time it 
does so the Wheatears make a dart at it and drive it further along. Had this 
taken place in springtime there would have been no great reason for surprise, 
since most birds, regardless of size or strength, will attack anything in defence 
of their young; but we are now in September, and they cannot be nesting. 
One can only suppose that their actions are attributable to an instinctive 
hatred of their race’s foe. 
As the darkness grows more intense, we keep a sharp look out for the 
Duck, not forgetting, as we are collectors, that this, too, is the time for a rare 
Owl or a Harrier. The Short-eared Owl turns up frequently on the East 
Coast in the autumn, and is often flushed by day from the sandhills and the 
odd heaps of cement and bricks that one meets with here and there along the 
shore. The Barn Owl I have also encountered; not by day, but during the 
evening flight. Sometimes, too, one hears the harsh “ frank” of the Heron, 
and it is no uncommon sight to see its long neck dangling from the shoulder of 
some labourer returning from his visit to the marsh; for many of these men turn 
