A WINTER'S DAY IN THE MARSHES 21 



of their wings is first heard, and then we can distin- 

 guish them. Widgeon they are, the feathers under- 

 neath shine like white satin. Picking out the leader 

 as he passes by, and aiming a yard in front, we bring 

 him down with a thud, dead. And now the fowl are 

 on the Saltings; their scream, chatter, quack, and 

 whistle all mixed up together, while from the other 

 side of the water comes the sound of the heavy duck- 

 guns hard at work. We slip over the wall, and begin 

 to crawl on hands and knees to the fowl feeding on 

 the very edge of the ebb tide. Curlews are not to be 

 thought of; they know exactly how far a gun will 

 reach, and keep just the right distance out of harm's 

 way. Besides, they post one of their number for 

 sentry duty. The redshanks are nearly as bad, for 

 they kick up a noise and let all the other birds know 

 that something is crawling along. 



A winged curlew, when he runs screaming and 

 wailing over the ooze, will disturb all the birds for a 

 mile or more. Strange to say, they do not fear the 

 fishing-boats, and, concealed from sight by the nets, 

 the men kill them from the deck as they feed on the 

 edge of the tide. If one drops on the water and goes 

 off with the tide, they have him, for a skiff with oars 

 in her is always in tow. In the autumn the curlews 

 visit the turnip-fields in quest of snails, worms, and 



