42 A BIRD COLLECTOR’S MEDLEY. 
out regularly after their day’s work is done, and the size of Herons, Curlews, 
and Whimbrels is sure to draw the fire of an old muzzle-loader. They shoot, 
of course, mainly for the pot, and there are those who aver that a young 
Heron makes a savoury dish, though I suspect it requires a good, strong sauce 
to help it out. 
Perhaps the most annoying thing connected with flight-shooting is the 
difficulty of retrieving the spoils. In winter, you can solace yourself with the 
reflection that, if you don’t manage to retrieve them, the Grey Crows will. It 
is part of their regular routine work to poke into odd corners and lurking 
spaces on the chance of unearthing a cripple; but in September these tireless 
scavengers have not yet arrived, and unless you have a dog with you a bird 
that is not killed dead will probably baffle your pursuit. I have recently been 
regaled with two flighting stories, worthy, I think, of being recorded. The 
first hails from Littlestone, where, in the autumn of 1903, there was a mighty 
visitation of Teal. They came in one evening in such numbers, flying low 
over the ground, that a local shooter, after browning them right and left until 
he ran short of cartridges, was disgusted to find the flight still continuing, while 
he was impotent to avail himself of it. 
Being a man of resource, he at length hit upon a plan; he planted 
himself firmly on a neighbouring hillock, and, grasping his gun by the barrels, 
whirled the butt round and round his head like an Indian club until the 
muscles of his arms gave out, at which point he had succeeded in braining no 
fewer than five extra birds. 
But perhaps the experience of the second sportsman was still more 
extraordinary. He was riding on a bicycle across Pevensey marshes, prepara- 
tory to concealing himself for the flight. Suddenly there was a whirring of 
wings around him and a smash in front, and amidst discordant ‘‘ quacks”’ he 
found himself in total darkness on the ground. He thought at first that the 
Ducks, instead of waiting for his assault, had taken time by the forelock and 
assaulted him; but the more rational explanation that occurred to him, when 
he had sorted himself, was that the birds had been attracted by his bicycle 
lamp, and had flown into it much as they might have flown into a lighthouse. 
