293 



DUCK-SHOOTING IN A GALE 



THE wind was sweeping across the great level of the 

 Humber valley, tearing slates from the barn roofs, 

 twisting up the rick thatches, and whirling loose straw 

 and rubbish from stackyard to field, while squalls of 

 rain and sleet or driving hail sent everything that had 

 legs or wings to covert and shelter. As I was walking 

 out between the showers, I was hailed by the shepherd, 

 riding up on the battered old horse which he has the use 

 of when the flock is far afield, from a visit to his sheep 

 in the marshes. A fresh-flayed fleece flung across the 

 saddle in front of him, the wool inside against his thighs, 

 with the red exterior presented to view, showed that at 

 least one of his flock had succumbed to the rigours of 

 the night. But it was not to give news of his sheep 

 that he smote the old horse with the hedge-stake in his 

 hand and jogged across the path to address me. " Eh," 

 he said, "ye suld ha' been wi' me an hour back wi' 

 your double-barril goon. Such a sight o' dook ! I 

 believe there wur forty came over me and pitched in 

 the drain by the black wood, and t' dyke is fair wick 

 (alive) wi' 'em. They'll be come some way, I'm 



