THE HERON AND ITS HAUNTS 87 



limber, clinging toes enable him to grasp the reeds 

 and flags in order to climb sufficiently high to give 

 room for his wings to play. His cousin the bittern 

 is more expert in the art of getting up out of cover 

 than is the heron, but then he is also more given to 

 hiding himself. 



Now he is well up, and he comes on with some 

 more herons after him. This is the time to note his 

 play of wing, for the wind blows strong. The birds 

 try to beat to windward, but the blast catches them 

 turning them fairly up on one side. They thresh and 

 flap vigorously to recover their balance, and succeed 

 in doing so after a time, to be caught again in the 

 same manner. Over the sea wall and on over the 

 saltings they flap, and they drop down close to the 

 edge of the ebbing tide. But what a change is this 

 from their summer haunts. The haze that flickered 

 over the slub and softened the distance has given 

 place to the keen clear air of winter, when the dry 

 black frosts hold the marsh and dykes in their icy 

 grip. Sails of ships can be seen in the offing, and the 

 minster tower stands out in clear relief against the 

 sky. About a mile away a dark cloud appears to 

 hang over the water, towards which it falls and rises 

 again. On the water a long line of black shows. It 

 is a gaggle of Brent geese, part of which are on the 



