WILD-FOWLING A FLO A 7 BY NIGHT 209 



the great sheets of thin ice under the snow jostling 

 and crashing against each other as they drift past 

 on their way downwards to the open sea. Ashore, 

 the voice of Nature seems hushed in sleep, but it is 

 otherwise on the coast, where the wild-fowl world 

 is evidently wide awake. The cheery notes of the 

 widgeon as they call to each other, the long-drawn 

 " quacking " of the mallard under the shore, and 

 the harsh cries of the brent in the distance are heard 

 on every side, and as the feeding-hour draws near 

 their acclamations become more and more noisy. The 

 prospect, so far as we are concerned, could not look 

 rosier, for the bay is full of birds, and as we go aboard 

 our trim little double punt and stow away the gear in 

 its proper place, our hopes of a good shot run high. 

 The wind blows directly from under the moon to- 

 wards us, and the cries of the widgeon are distinctly 

 heard as they leisurely swim up towards the higher 

 'muds, where they will first obtain food. 



' Hugging the high land of the shore as closely as 

 water and ice will permit, we paddle round inside the 

 bay and lay up our punt in a snug corner, out of the 

 wind, from which point we can observe the course 

 of events. Through the glasses numbers of black- 

 looking objects, easily recognisable as widgeon by 

 their buoyancy on the water, may be seen bobbing 



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