298 THE YORKSHIRE FEN 



of this old stump, worn smooth and polished by the 

 rubbing of generations of cattle, is a favourite place 

 with them, and I crept up full of hope. But I was not 

 to succeed. The duck were there, but some fifty yards 

 to the left of their usual place, and thirteen rose just 

 out of shot, and flew down stream, disturbing a pair 

 and a single bird on their way. 



This was dreadfully disappointing, but there was still 

 another chance. At the very end of the estate is a 

 plantation of about fifteen acres, by the side of which 

 for some eighty yards runs a tolerably wide drain. It 

 was not on the sheltered side, but there seemed a 

 possibility of finding birds there, especially as some of 

 those I had sent on had wheeled, and shown an inclin- 

 ation to alight. One or two herons flapped away from 

 the trees as I came up, with their noisy croaking cry, 

 but as the wind was from the dyke to them it did not 

 matter. 



Passing through the plantation was rather nervous 

 work. The trees, tall and spindly, most of them spruce 

 firs and ashes, were ill rooted in the loose, rotten, peaty 

 soil, and more than one had fallen during the day, not 

 broken, but uprooted. However, I made my way 

 through the tangled growth of unhealthy, green-looking 

 brambles and white shimmering reeds, and looking 

 through a screen of the latter, which grew on the dyke 

 side, I was a little above the water, I saw not wild-duck 

 proper, but a small flock of widgeon swimming about 

 forty yards to the right. Pulling in the dog, and 

 giving her a small cufF by way of admonition, I stepped 



