ON FOWLERS AND WILD-FOWLING. 155 



they have always been, health-giving to man, as 

 well as affording satisfaction to his craving for the 

 beautiful. 



A bitter nor'-easter has been blowing all the 

 day ; the tide has flowed and ebbed again, but not 

 one shooter from the fishing village has been down 

 with his gun to the shore, although a few have taken 

 to the sea-wall the present writer with them to 

 see how things are looking. It is a very poor look- 

 out indeed, for the wind blows the water off the sea 

 in sheets, and delivers it to us in the shape of a 

 blinding salt spray, that makes the tears run down 

 one's face, and gives a sensation as if hot needles 

 were pricking one. There is no use in trying to 

 bear it ; if we do not leave the top of the wall we 

 shall be blown off it, so we crouch at its foot, to 

 the leeward side, of course. As we sit there, fowl- 

 ing reminiscences are brought up : " It wus jest 

 sich a day as this here," remarks one of the party, 

 "that old Splashey busted his six-footer." Splashey 

 was a sporting shoemaker, who owned the longest 

 fowling-gun in the village. He was also noted for 

 wearing the most dilapidated shoes. No matter if 

 it rained in torrents, out he would bolt, precisely at 



