32 MARCH IN SROADLAND. 



decline his invite to drop in and have a cup of tea, for the day is waning apace. 

 It is stiff work pulling against the wind, and the dark waters are furrowed with 

 foamy billows. We miss the starlings from the reeds to-day. They have already 

 begun to think of housekeeping in the busier town. 



Observe yonder big hawk-like bird! What grand sweeps it makes across the 

 reed-beds. It is a marsh-harrier (Circus ceruginosus). We are fortunate at see- 

 ing such a noble bird. It is beating the reeds in search of a supper. See ! a poor 

 little moorhen, unluckily taking to flight instead of diving, is speedily pounced 

 upon. It has struck its needle-pointed talons into the water-fowl, and has now 

 settled upon a tussocky promontory that runs out from between the reeds. The 

 game-keeper will be eager to level gun at the outlawed bird when occasion offers, 

 for unfortunately, it does not always confine its attentions to such worthless game 

 as this at least he says so. 



We have not yet caught sight of the swallows, for none have at present 

 arrived. The fieldfares and redwings are missing; they have gone back to their 

 northern homes. We have not heard the cuckoo, for though 



' In March he search, 

 In April he shows his bill.' 



What ducks are those in the distance some hundred at the least ? Lend us 

 your field-glasses, Piscator. They are widgeon. They are en route for the moras- 

 ses of colder latitudes, but have dropped in for a rest and feed. It is tantalising 

 to the gunner, whose right to maim and kill ran out on the last of February; and 

 the widgeon is no despicable morsel upon the table. We wonder if our old friend, 

 the fenman, has any scruples upon the matter ? Why ! here comes the old fellow 

 himself, rowing as hard as his toughened arms will allow him. We await his 

 coming. 



4 All right, guv'nor ! but I jest thowt as how yow might like a tit-bit for yer 

 dinner to-morrer,' he ventures to say, giving a knowing look at us and another at 

 Piscator. l Them owd perch oan't cum up tu a good cock smee (widgeon) with a 

 onion tucked inside him. Yow can put 'em under the scaly ones if yow fale at all 

 nervous ; but lor, sir, how kin a feller keep his finger off the trigger when sich a 

 pretty little dinner-piece gets in front of his fowlin'-piece ? ' 



We send the old gent back to the ' missus ' in very good spirits, and quietly 

 place the birds where he suggested. Who would condemn us ? The thing comes 

 about so irresistibly, and the most exemplary of us are amateur poachers at the 

 worst, and at the best the hunting instinct still lingers in us. 



