My Last 'Day in the Fen. 251 



the birds kept in the fens ; but, as soon as the upland meadows 

 were flooded, they dispersed over the country, and betook them- 

 selves to favourite feeding grounds far away from the mere 3 and 

 of course the punt-shooters followed them up. The low meadows 

 up country were then a favourite resort for fowl, and Warmington 

 Sulk and Perry Hurn were household words in the vocabularies of 

 the wildfowl-shooters 5 and how well can I, even now, recollect a 

 winter scene in this neighbourhood ! 



The November flood has set in, all the meadows are flooded, in 

 many places one foot deep, and the muddy, turbid stream of the 

 Nene warns us that there is still much water to come down. A 

 trip of ducks has just passed upwards, and the deep-measured cackle 

 of a flight of wild geese, high in air above our heads, falls musi- 

 cally on the ear. We strain our eyes over the waste of waters to 

 watch them gradually disappear, when, skimming over the surface 

 of the floods, a solitary figure bears in sight, which we at once 

 recognise as one of our friends the duck-men. At first he is standing 

 erect, spritting his punt along in the shallow water, when all at once 

 he shifts his position, for he has caught sight of a small flock of 

 birds feeding on the edge of the flood 3 and now it is an interesting 

 sight to see the cautious way he works up to them. Lying flat in 

 the bottom of the punt, his legs stretched out behind on each side 

 to steady it, a small stalking stick in either hand, he gradually and 

 noiselessly approaches the unconscious fowl, which go on feeding, 

 little aware of the enemy that is drifting down upon them. As long 

 as they keep their position all is right, but as soon as one rises on 

 the water and shakes his wings, and the rest of the birds draw 

 together, it is plain they suspect danger. If the gunner is not yet 

 within shot, now is the time for his greatest caution ; however, he 

 quietly drifts down to within about a hundred yards — the cover is 

 thrown off' the lock of the gun, a bright flash, a loud report, the 

 boat flies back many yards through the water, and two pair of half- 

 birds (as they call the pochards here) and a pair of ducks are lying 

 breast upwards on the water. The dead birds are collected, the 



