WATER-RAIL WILD DUCKS. 103 



large flock of oyster-catchers, redshanks, and an infinite 

 variety of other waders. The redshank begins now to utter the 

 peculiar whistle which indicates the return of spring : early 

 as it is, too, the jack-snipes, red-wings, fieldfares, &c., seem 

 to return northwards, as I see great numbers of these and 

 other birds, which had for the last month or two disappeared, 

 having, probably, then gone southwards. 



The little water-rail seems to be a great wanderer. I find 

 its track, and the bird itself, in the most unlikely places ; for 

 instance, I put one up in a dry furze field, and my retriever 

 caught another in a hedge, at some distance from the water : 

 I took the latter bird home alive to show to my children. 

 When I took him out of my pocket, in which most unaccus- 

 tomed situation he had been for two hours, this strange little 

 creature looked about him with the greatest nonchalance 

 possible, showing fight at everything that came near him ; 

 and when, having gratified the curiosity of the children, we 

 turned him loose in a ditch of running water, he went away 

 jerking up his tail, and not seeming to hurry himself, or to 

 be in the least disconcerted. 



In hard frosts during this month I get a great number of 

 wild ducks by waiting for an hour (the last hour of light) 

 near some open place in the lochs, or streams, where they 

 coine to feed. On my way home from shooting, when I have 

 been in the direction of the swamps, I often do this, and 

 generally succeed in filling my bag with mallards and 

 widgeon. 



Just before sunset I take up my position in the midst of 

 two or three furze bushes, within easy shot of where a small 

 stream runs into one of the lakes, keeping the water con- 

 stantly open. Having given my retriever the biscuit which 

 I always carry for him on these cold days, I light my pipe 

 (the great comfort of the patient wild-fowl shooter), and look 

 out towards the bay for the mallards. The bay is nearly 

 half a mile off, but I can see the ducks between me and the 

 sky almost as soon as they leave it. At first a solitary pair 

 or two come, quietly and swiftly, probably making their way 

 to some favourite spring farther inland. However, with the 

 help of a cartridge, I bring down a brace from a great height 

 as they pass over ; sometimes tumbling on the ice of the loch 

 behind me, they are nearly split in two ; sometimes, when 

 winged, they fall in the rushy stream, and give the retriever 

 no small trouble and cold before he gets them ; however, he 



