THE MEADOWS IN WINTER. 119 
these semi-frozen swamps when the sun has set, but at present you are 
comfortably located on a paling concealed by the hedge, and have settled 
yourself down for a quiet and interesting half-hour. There is a certain weird 
charm about a winter’s sunset in the water-meadows, which harmonizes 
well with the muffled shriek of the Peewits as they loom big in the darkness 
previous to taking up a station for the night. A white shadow flits noise- 
lessly from behind, and is lost to sight in a moment; it is the Barn-Owl, 
quartering the fields in his nightly search for mice; and now a Kestrel slowly 
wings its way past your ambush to its evening resting-place. It is time to 
look out for the Duck, and here they come, travelling high up in the air, 
from some preserved pond three miles off, perhaps, where they have spent 
the day in safety. As they near the meadows, they descend gradually and 
noiselessly, no longer with the quick flaps that have carried them along so 
far, but with a silent ghostly motion they glide hither and thither in the 
gloom, an occasional ‘‘quack” and sharp splash showing that one has at 
last found a feeding-place to his liking. 
But we must now think of retiring; and well for us if we have taken note 
of the ground by day and can strike the solid places at the first attempt; 
otherwise our expedition is likely to have an uncomfortable termination. 
Crossing rickety ice-bound planks is a trying ordeal at any time, but the 
chances of a catastrophe are indefinitely augmented when the passage has 
to be negotiated with only the uncertain assistance of the moon. 
