56 A BIRD COLLECTOR’S MEDLEY. 
the night, but beyond this nothing is certain. You may tramp them from 
end to end and see nothing, and another shooter coming half an hour 
later may find himself surrounded with migrants in fresh from the sea. I 
have heard, though I have never seen it, of the bushes being ‘“ smothered ”’ 
with birds. Or again, the birds may be in the bushes and refuse to come 
out, in which case, as far as you are concerned, they might just as well 
not be there at all. Various methods have been tried to effect their 
ejection. Some have hired men to beat with sticks, others have dragged 
ropes across the top, and ordinary individuals simply take the bull by the 
horns and tramp through them; but, generally speaking, the birds either 
come out rapidly of their own accord, or skulk and remain unmoved by 
any device. 
When they do pop out, they are still many degrees removed from the 
cabinet. In the first place, you may fire too soon and blow them to 
pieces, or, while refraining until they have reached the requisite distance, 
wait too long, and see them unexpectedly vanish in the scrub; and 
sometimes, most maddening of all, when the bird is brought to bag 
uninjured, subsequent exposure or shaking causes it to go bad before the 
day is out. Most people prefer a twelve-bore loaded with a half-charge of 
No. 8, while others advocate dust-shot packed very loosely. But, whatever 
charge be used, I am convinced that if a real rarity is obtained it should 
be carried in the hand, head downwards, to allow the juices to escape, 
with a thin piece of paper wrapped loosely round the body, and, even 
before this is done, the bird should be laid on the sand beneath the shade 
of a bush until it has had time to stiffen. 
My own experiences of the bushes have been varied and typical in the 
main. Entering them for the first time one bright September morning, we 
were greeted at once by the well-known note of the Titlark, and later on 
some Whinchats and dubious-looking Reed-Buntings perched temptingly 
on the higher sprays. 
Suddenly there is the flicker of a red tail between some twigs, and out 
darts the owner like a flash. At first sight it appears to be a Redstart, 
but ere its species can be surely decided, it is buried again in the thickest 
recesses of the cover. A few vigorous kicks put it out once more into the 
open, and a second glance reveals the welcome fact that the red only 
covers half the tail, and thus proclaims the presence of that delightful 
Arctic visitor, the Bluethroat. It falls to my brother’s gun, and proves 
to be a perfect specimen of an immature bird, disappointing only in the 
absence of the blue gorget, which is at this age replaced by a ring of 
