192 STRA Y FEA THERS FROM MANY BIRDS. 



mud and water beyond. Big white banks of fog hang 

 heavy over the fenlands, and the rosy streaks of 

 morning spread across the eastern sky. A tired-out 

 Woodcock springs up at our feet from the long dry 

 wiry grass on the bank he is a new-comer, just reached 

 England during the previous night, and is resting 

 himself ere he passes on to some woodland swamp. 

 The shrill whistle of the Godwit and the somewhat 

 mournful notes of the Curlew ring clearly out on the 

 morning air, whilst here and there a Gull or a Crow fly 

 slowly along and soon disappear into the misty distance. 

 The night has been a rough one, though the wind is 

 favourable for the migrants. The tide has not yet fully 

 ebbed, and we have to wade knee-deep through the 

 pools in many places, and take long jumps across the 

 narrow dykes and trenches. Far away before us are the 

 nets, but we are yet too distant to make out whether 

 they contain any birds. We flush a few Dunlins from 

 the muddy banks of a stream, and a Redshank hurries 

 away from a shallow pool as we approach. We can 

 now see the nets more distinctly, and make out a few 

 white-looking birds in them. We are soon at the first 

 long reach of netting, and the scene before us is a most 

 novel and curious one. Several Gulls are hanging by 

 the wings in one portion of the net, alive, but apparently 

 philosophically resigned to their fate. Farther on in 

 the same net we find a pair of Fork-tailed Petrels and a 



