10(5 OCTOBER IN SROADLAND. 



our conjecture to be correct. A puff of smoke from a bunch of reeds on the rond 

 by the river is followed by the fall of one of their number. The report is from 

 none other than Jim Trett's fowling-piece ; her * bark,' as the fenman describes it, 

 is unmistakable, and out from his lair the old man stalks, and retrieves his fallen 

 game. We would not disturb him, but the good fellow seeing us, beckons us 

 towards him. 



6 That's a dinner for the old woman tu-morrow,' he informs us after a shake 

 of his horny fist and the usual salutation. * Some folks be tew pertikler, 'bor, and 

 tell yer curlew ain't grand eatin' but they doan't know, yer see, it's jist becos 

 they've eaten 'em when they wasn't in their prime. D'ye see ? This'll du, 'bor, 

 for it's a young'un, an' jist off the northern moors where 'twere bred an' born, its 

 grub was lob-worams an' insex an' other bog-livin' critters. I've heerd my old dad 

 say as how 



' A curlew, be she white, or be she black, 

 She carries twelvepence on her back.' 



Not as it's worth a bob tu me, 'bor; anyway, it ain't spiled it's flavour yet, as it 

 would sune ha' done down at the sea-coast on a salt-water diet. Lay yow down, 

 look kedgey ! (lively), and mind that pulk-hole ! (mud-puddle).' 



A loud report follows the old man's ' sight ' down the long, bright barrel, 

 which he has been loading during his eulogy on the curlew. This time a lapwing 

 is slain, and as we peer through an opening in the reeds we see the poor thing 

 stopped short in its flight, turn over, and with extended wings fall like a clod upon 

 the rond, from which it rebounds several inches with the impact. Jim Trett 

 evidently knows well the ' lay ' of the country, and that certain spots are used 

 as 4 leads ' by various wild birds. 



* Here, 'bor,' he resumes, ( hornpies (lapwings) or pe-weeps, as some call 'em, 

 gin'rally lead this time o' the year. Arter feedin' on them meshes (marshes) be- 

 hind them fir-trees yinder, they cum back in the mornin' tu the uplands tu preen 

 theer plumage an' nap till nightfall. Here cum tew or three more. I'll whistle 

 'em.' 



The fellow's wrinkled face puckers up as he imitates the hornpie's familiar 

 cry. But though they answer to it, they fly wide of him. We leave him to his 

 own devices, and make towards the Broad, after promising to drop in at eventide 

 to discuss the merits of an ' old hernshaw (heron) as he'd kilt the night afore on 

 the meshes.' 



