144 THE OLD SPORT 



a quiet feeding-place. The Yellow Legs, the most 

 tempting of small game, mingle with their in- 

 significant relatives, but are picked out by waiting 

 sportsmen. The ceaseless gathering of food that 

 marks the lives of the shore waders seems almost 

 pathetic as they settle on the wet sand to daintily 

 pick and reach while waiting guns are levelled. With 

 depleted numbers they fly elsewhere, shot after shot 

 continuing the predatory destruction. The noisy 

 attack is prolonged into the open day and leaves no 

 pause for rest, revealing in unconcern the harsh law 

 that there is no truce in nature's warfare. 



