THE BOOK OF MIGRATORY BIRDS 41 



remains of a stack of reeds, I found a "shore shooter,'* 

 one who makes his living by means of his gun. By some 

 unlucky chance he had forgotten to fill his powder-flask. 

 The birds are well up on the Saltings, and he has only 

 enough for another charge for his duck gun. Could I 

 oblige him with a charge? he asked. 



"Certainly, with half-a-dozen, if you like," is my reply. 



"I can't afford to shoot them little hen-footed things," 

 he remarks. "Powder and shot cost money. Are you 

 after something to stuff?" 



"Well, yes; something in that way." 



"Ah, I fancied you was by your shootin'. You let some 

 fowl go by that I should have pulled at. You don't shoot 

 for a livin'?" 



"No, I do not." 



"Shall you be down this part any more, think you?" 



"Yes, I may, for anything I know." 



"Well, there's some of your sort of birds about here, 

 what you're after, and I could knock a few over for you. 

 Would this one be any good to you ? If it is, take it." 



I was glad to have it, for it was a fine specimen of the 

 Kentish Plover, or Dotterel (Charadrius cantiamis) a rare 

 bird even here. 



"Can you live by your gun?" I asked. 



"Sometimes; last winter I did well, though it was by 

 chance like ! It come about this way. I had to go to 

 the marshes at the back of the island Sheerness. You 

 don't know it, do you?" 



"I know it well, a shallow part especially, covered over 

 with sea grass and weed, and a good nine miles from 

 here." 



"Ah, that's it ! The geese are well sheltered there, with 

 plenty of food, and they'd gathered from all parts. I 

 brought home three couple on my first night, and sold 

 'em. Then I bought myself powder and shot, and a few 

 other things, and went to work. Well, all through that 

 winter I managed to live; rough work at times, mind you, 



