In the Haunts of Wild Fowl 127 



Strange noises filled the air. One night 

 the flood tide pushed us out of the channel 

 up on the edge of the high mud-flat. On 

 the ebb the ice began to crowd its tons 

 against the Dixie's upper side. Suddenly 

 it pushed her off the edge of the channel 

 where she had been caught, and when she fell 

 into the deep water her masts quivered like 

 reeds, and the crash rang through her hull 

 like the roar of an earthquake. We were all 

 sound asleep when it happened, but the jump 

 out of bed was unanimous, and the chorus of 

 inquiry had the flavour of Chimmey Fadden's 

 famous remark. We had a laugh all round 

 and went back to sleep. 



Of all the sounds I have ever heard a mov- 

 ing ice field, crunching against the sides of a 

 vessel, is the strangest and most thrilling. 

 It comes like the distant, sonorous roar of a 

 storm sweeping down a mountain gorge, 

 and yet it is so close and has such a chorus 

 of intermingled notes that there is absolutely 



