A WINTERS DAY IN THE MARSHES 15 



Now and again came the subdued quack of the wild 

 duck at the report of the gun and the fall of his 

 mate, mingled with the whistling of the widgeon 

 and the scape-scape-scape of snipes on the wing ; and 

 last, not least, the hoarse cry of the hungry heron. 



All at once, yet far off, a cry comes over the 

 flats, as though from a pack of hounds in full cry in 

 the air. Grasping my arm, my companion, a grey- 

 haired old man, says, ' Do yo' hear that, boy ? ' 



Yes, I hear. Nearer and nearer it comes ; and 

 now is heard the rush of many wings with strange 

 unearthly yelp and bark. The sounds pass over us 

 and then die away in the distance. 



'Let the fowl be for to-night, and we will get 

 home ; there's bad luck about when the Hell hounds 

 are on the hunt : l you know what took place here ? 

 They heard them then ; we are standing on the very 

 spot ; let us move.' 



And the old man drags me on in nervous haste. 



I knew the story well. A father and his son I 

 knew them both had gone down for the night 

 shooting. The son, unknown to his father, moved 



1 The strange cries heard in the air, I have no doubt, proceeded 

 from a mixed flight of white-fronted and Barnacle geese, rare visitors 

 on that part of the coast. During that fearful winter birds of a feather 

 did not at all times keep to their own company. 



