1 64 WOODLAND, MOOR, AND STREAM 



before a storm, and he is not an exception to the 

 rule. Heavy dim clouds have gathered, and the sun 

 throws a flash of brilliant light low down over a 

 portion of the marsh lands. The sails of the vessels 

 show brightly as they sail into the light, and are lost 

 in the shadow when they pass out of it. There is 

 more than an hour before the sun sinks, and the 

 storm is not yet near it is only coming up. Making 

 for a wide, shallow pool, surrounded by the vegeta- 

 tion peculiar to the salt tide flats, we sit down 

 between two old mole-hills and look about us. 

 Close to the edge of the pool some pewits are 

 dabbling and splashing, while further out wild ducks 

 are swimming, the young ones nearly as large as 

 their mothers. One or two herons are flapping over 

 to some fishing-ground they know of; and a couple 

 of terns are dip, dip, dipping up and down all over 

 the pool, making circling ripples that shine low 

 down like golden rings in the light. The whole 

 makes a quiet and very interesting picture ; but its 

 tranquillity is soon disturbed, for the marsh harrier 

 sweeps over the flats, tips over the flags, almost 

 brushing them with his wings, and pounces at the 

 ducks. Quack, quack, sing out the old ones, their 

 heads flat on the water and their eyes looking all 

 ways at once, whilst they strike the water up in a 



