36 THE FOWLER IN IRELAND. 



was completely frozen, the townspeople skated 

 daily, and both old and young birds were driven 

 into Clew Bay, never to return. 



They are to be seen on all the estuaries, lakes, 

 bogs, and marshes in the island, but far more 

 abundantly on tidal waters than inland. They sit in 

 such dense companies, fly in such dark sweeping 

 clouds, and gather so favourably at times for a shot 

 from a punt gun, that one good chance recoups the 

 shooter for a week's idleness. 



As the deer to the stalker, so are Wigeon to the 

 Duck-shooter. He views them with eagerness 

 checked by anxiety. Let us watch him. What a 

 sight ! Four to five hundred Wigeon feeding, quar- 

 relling, and calling on the last patch of bank yet 

 uncovered by the flowing tide, as many more swim- 

 ming up to partake of the feast whilst they may ; 

 others flying a few feet in the air and pitching where 

 they can better find space to wedge in. As the 

 patch visibly diminishes, the tiny waves rippling 

 higher every moment, the busy crowd get even 

 closer to one another, and gradually huddle together 

 in one black swarm. What alternate hope and fear 

 now fills the fowler's breast ! He is yet three shots 

 too far. Will the birds be floated and so opened out 

 ere his straining companion can pole him within 

 shot ? Will they fly ? W 7 ill some jealous shore- 

 shooter fire to rise them ? Lastly, the awful but 

 just possible chance of a miss fire the cruellest fate 

 of all ! Meanwhile, men and punt push nearer, and 

 seem, from our position, to creep among the very 

 fowl. They are exactly between us and the birds, 

 which causes this effect. " In Heaven's name, why 



