IN NORFOLK BY THE SEA i6i 



northwards to nest. Golden plover, grey plover, 

 small groups of whimbrel, an occasional reeve — these 

 and many others, in varying states of plumage, drop 

 in from day to day. But by about the first week 

 of June things have settled down pretty well into 

 their places. And it is any day in this first week 

 of June that we are now to spend with a field-glass 

 out among the sandhills, seeing a little of all there 

 is to see. 



It is easy now the tide is running down to get out 

 in a small boat to the eastern point. An old man 

 takes us there who has been a notable gunner in his 

 day. He is full of quaint old memories, and is most 

 anxious to get an opinion on the nature of some 

 wonderful bird he met with one night or early 

 morning on his way back from the flats. But his 

 description is vague. This is it. " I thought as I 

 could hear somethin' a biblin', and, before I could 

 get my gun up, that scouted, and went off like a 

 shimmer of ice. That did, bor," repeats the old 

 man with serious emphasis, "that went off like a 

 shimmer of ice '^ 



But this is " the Point " ; the point, that is, of the 

 eastern sandhills, where they sink first to broken tufts 

 of grasses and then to a shingle bed. About this 



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