CHAPTER VI 



A Wood by the Sea 



One of my favourite haunts at Wells, in Norfolk, is 

 the pine wood, a mile or two long, growing on the slope 

 of the sand-hills and extending from the Wells em- 

 bankment to Holkham — a black strip with the yellow- 

 grey dunes and the sea on one side and the wide level 

 green marsh on the other. It is the roosting-place 

 of all the crows that winter on that part of the coast, 

 and I time my visits so as to be there in the evening. 

 Rooks and daws also resort to that spot, and altogether 

 there is a vast concourse of birds of the crow family. 

 My habit is to stroll on to the embankment at about 

 three o'clock to watch and listen to the geese on their 

 way from their feeding-grounds to the sea, always 

 flying too high for the poor gunners lying in wait for 

 them. So poor, indeed, are some of these men that 

 they will shoot at anything that flies by, even a 

 hooded crow. They do not fire at it for fun — they 

 can't afford to throw away a cartridge : one of them 

 assured me that a crow, stewed with any other bird 

 he might have in the larder — peewit, redshank, curlew, 

 or gull — goes down very well when you are hungry. 

 Later I go on to the sea, meeting the last of the 



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