186 Clear Skies and Cloudy. 



care much for the comforts of a shelter. They 

 know that the autumn flight of wild-fowl has 

 taken place. They know that the little pools 

 and winding brooks that drain the meadows 

 are likely to be visited by pintail ducks and 

 widgeon, and that now the home-bred sum- 

 mer ducks are hobnobbing in the marsh with 

 their cousins from the up-country. The gunner 

 knows this, but it is going to rain, and not 

 for ducks will he get wet. They will not pass 

 away with the storm, he thinks. 



Perhaps not, but I will not risk it. The 

 greater my triumph, the more I see, and so 

 prove the day not empty, the country not deso- 

 late. Here, as I expected, I startle widgeon 

 from the wilted cat-tails, and the pintail ducks, 

 taking warning, rise with a clatter into the air, 

 without knowing what the danger may be. 

 They are all gone, and the cold, glittering 

 reaches of old Crosswicks are forbidding. The 

 storm is too near for comfort I admit, yet sight- 

 seeing is not at an end. Almost at my feet, as 

 I stand on the bank of the little river, is a coot 

 that floats as lightly as a cork, and holds its 

 head as erect as a June rose in the sunshine. 



