THE WINTER YELLOW-LEGS 181 



lows and reddish browns which betoken that our 

 summer is gone — here it is that the crafty snipe 

 will dart and twist with erratic and confusing 

 flight to dodge the charge with which you fain 

 would cut him down. At this season, too, it 

 may chance that in some of these reed-edged 

 pools the black duck is leading its family, now 

 full-fledged, keen eyed and already abnormally 

 sharp in the world's harsh methods. But now 

 'tis late summer, and through the sultry air 

 from a distance comes the ''Winter's" cry, far 

 away and faint, the bird itself out of sight. In 

 answer to the gunner's mimicry comes back 

 again the note from another quarter. His cir- 

 cling flight has taken him a mile away, but still, 

 mellow and musical, his far-reaching whistle, 

 softened by the distance, is heard in answer to 

 each luring call, and away in the sky the gun- 

 ner sees him — a mere speck against the clouds. 

 If the imitation is good and the bird is in social 

 mood he comes nearer, calling again and again, 

 quartering the marsh with his watchful eye 

 alert for friend or foe. Now the sportsman lies 

 close, well hidden by the stack of marsh grass — 

 a perfect match for his hunting coat of dingy, 

 yellowish brown, — or crouches in the waving 



