288 THE GUN: AFIELD AND AFLOAT 



flight of the fowl as taken on the previous morning t 

 The grass was crisp and white with hoar-frost, and the 

 cold gun-barrels made one's fingers sting and tingle even 

 through thick gloves. Soon the rattling sound of the 

 pochards' wings was borne to me upon the still morning 

 air, and the gun was quickly raised and twice discharged 

 at a- thick bunch of fowl hustling past me. Then the 

 sound of ducks striking the hard ground proclaimed 

 the welcome fact that the 4^ oz. of No. 2 poured from 

 the two barrels had done its deadly work. Five of these 

 ducks were picked up immediately, and on daylight 

 coming two more were recovered by casting about 

 along the line of flight of the surviving fowl. Seven 

 fine pochards, in the pink of condition, amply rewarded 

 me for having turned out at five o'clock for several 

 consecutive mornings ; but of course this happy result 

 was clearly traceable to that most fortunate meeting 

 with the fisherman on the bank. 



Sometimes the most astonishing ignorance as to the 

 habits and movements of wild-ducks is displayed by 

 those having ample opportunities for knowing better. 

 One November afternoon, about four o'clock, I was 

 driving along a marshland road bound for a barley- 

 stubble field, where on the previous evening I had 

 killed two couples of duck, when I fell in with a tired 

 sportsman just returning home. I had met this man 

 at dinner at a friend's house a little while before, and 

 on questioning him as to his sport, he told me that he 

 had tramped those marshes for six hours or more in 

 the hope of bagging a duck or two, and that he was 

 then returning thoroughly disgusted, and with the firm 

 conviction that there was not a duck within miles. He 

 was much surprised on my telling him that he might 



