112 A BIRD COLLECTOR’S MEDLEY. 
CHARPTERY Xd: 
THE SHORE IN WINTER. 
ONE cannot go into raptures over winter shore-tramping in the general. 
There are times, no doubt, when celestial is the only word that can describe 
the sport, golden moments when a sharp snack of frost has brought in the 
foreign Duck, and they are flying aimlessly about by day, backwards and 
forwards across the sea-wall, or occasionally dropping into some sheltered 
creek—* Duck coming in by the thousand,’ as the local phrase hath it. 
But how often do such welcome visitations coincide with the Christmas 
holidays? How often is such a picture descriptive of the actual facts? If 
you ask the village fowler for a definite date, seldom, if ever, can he give 
it you in the current year. Far more often it begins with, ‘‘ When my father 
was a boy.”” No; a day’s diurnal Duck-shooting on the open shore is a 
windfall to be revelled in as long as you can see the barrel of your gun, 
and then marked in one’s diary as a red-lettered day. 
The fact is, that in mild weather one has almost a better chance of 
getting a Goose than a Duck. The Grey-Lag and White-fronted in particular, 
are not infrequently to be seen coming off the sea in the morning, and making 
for the fresh marshes inside the wall, and if one has the luck to be behind 
it and in their line, there is every chance of securing a reasonable shot. If 
you miss it then, you may get a second opportunity towards evening, when 
they make their return journey seaward, or even earlier, if you can induce 
some cowherd to go and beat up his cattle on the marsh; but when they 
do move, after perhaps a three hours’ wait on your part—for the average 
man will endure much for a shot at a Goose—even then your chance is a 
poor one. You may reckon on their coming against the wind, and more or less 
towards the line of the estuary, if there is one. But this leaves a wide margin 
outside the range of a twelve-bore, though a local, with his past experiences 
to help him, is not unlikely to hit off the exact line of their retreat. 
But an ordinary winter’s tramp across the saltings, how different it is 
to those blithe September days. Then, with only sand-shoes on our feet, we 
gaily worked our way along the channels, conscious that at each corner we 
