THE OLD DECOY 



is laden with ripe, pale golden fruits, they are allowed 

 to fall and rot, unnoticed and unknown. Not a soul, 

 it would seem, knows of the existence even of the old 

 decoy-man's quince tree, upon which, a hundred years 

 ago and more, he set, I will wager, so great a store. 

 The quince, as some people are aware, loved a moist 

 situation — old-fashioned folk used to plant their trees 

 in a deep ditch — and the decoy-man, who no doubt had 

 some reed-hut or other shelter hard by, hit upon a 

 perfect site for the fruit he loved when he planted his 

 young sapling here. I can imagine the tough old 

 fellow — for the wildfowler had to be a man of iron con- 

 stitution to stand the life he led — regarding the tree 

 with a look of pride now and again as he passed to and 

 fro upon his business. 



Even now, much more than a century since its planter 

 was laid in his grave, the good tree thrives in this 

 wilderness, putting forth its fair pale blossom each 

 spring, bearing its crop of golden fruit each autumn, 

 and giving promise, in spite of its neglect, of continuing 

 to do so for generations yet to come. It is a pity, 

 indeed, that its delicious fruit, the improver even of the 

 goodly apple, when they are partners together in a 

 pie, should thus fall and decay, forgotten and un- 

 marked, each glorious autumn. Quince jelly, by the 

 way, made when the fruit is ripe, not before, is one of 

 the most delicious of all conserves, as our great-grand- 

 mothers and their forbears well knew. 



Let us look back a hundred years or so, and see how 

 the decoy-man went about his business. This is one 

 of the most ancient of our English sporting methods ; 

 it is one which, decade by decade, falls more and more 

 into desuetude, and it may be not uninteresting to see 

 how it was managed. Imagine, then, the great reed- 

 bed in front of us a broad and deep pool, as it was 

 c 17 



