SUMMER HOURS ON BREYDON 141 



July, 1895 



A NIGHT ON BREYDON MARSHES 



The night cloud is edged with gold as the sun sinks 

 slowly out of sight behind it. Streaks of yellow and red 

 with spots of purple freckle and fringe the widespread 

 curtain of the sky. A quietude, restful and almost oppres- 

 sive, settles over the marshland ; it is refreshing after the 

 turmoil and the rumble of the streets in the distant town, 

 now grown grey and indistinct as eventide draws a curtain 

 over its strifes and sorrows. As the daylight wanes the 

 lamps begin to sparkle and gleam ; but the darkness seems 

 laggard in its coming to the flat lowland country as imper- 

 ceptibly night creeps on. 



We were interested, when coming upstream, in seeing the 

 petulant redshanks clamorously scolding on the river bank, 

 or darting on pointed wing that showed streaks of glistening 

 white. Something had startled that pair of birds the 

 rambling of a bullock, perhaps, into dangerous proximity to 

 the nest ; or may it not have been merely their evensong ? 

 So we thought for a time. 



But turning our eye round to see if the coast is clear, as a 

 careful boatman often does, we notice a small object afloat 

 in midstream, and on a second look we see that it is moving. 

 Curiosity prompts a closer inspection, and a few quick 

 strokes bring us to it. The redshanks clangour has, if any- 

 thing, redoubled, and their excitement too. Stooping, we 

 slip a hand under a tiny bird still covered with a greyish 

 down, and recognise it at once as a baby "redleg." It is a 

 matter of but a few strokes more and our punt glides beside 

 the rond, on which we place the little swimmer, and as soon 

 as we are deemed at safe distance the old birds joyously 

 come to the wee thing's help. Why that small bird got into 

 the middle of the river defies our guessing ; it swam with the 

 buoyancy we have also seen in a nestling " pewit " in a pre- 

 cisely similar situation. These " clean-toed " waders swim 

 well. Surely the old birds do not attempt to carry their 

 young as the woodcock sometimes does ? 



There was a pleasant breeze just before the sun's face 

 turned glowing crimson, and loomed up larger as it neared 



