"IN THE HARD GREY WEATHER." 29 



The great grey gulls have flown so far land- 

 ward, and are endeavouring to tack against 

 the breeze and make for the red ploughed 

 fields on the hills. The sun is hidden behind 

 clouds of mingled black and yellow, with rifts 

 between them of steel blue ; the cold is so 

 intense and piercing that the fowler finds it 

 difficult to keep his fingers fit for feeling the 

 triggers of the gun. The weather has been 

 too much for the wild-fowl themselves. At an 

 immense height you hear the troubled clang- 

 ing of a string of geese driven from the bleak 

 howling shore; the snipe are startled from 

 their sedentary habits, and are twirling and 

 bleating in irregular batches, seeking for a 

 glimpse of a spring or a stream ; widgeon, 

 plover, and curlew are all on the move, but 

 keep cautiously out of range. The fowler 

 trudges for miles, a shivering and whimpering 

 setter at his heels, without getting a shot. 

 The dangerous traps and crosses of the bog 

 are now perfectly safe for passage, but every 

 footstep sounds on them like a thump on a 

 drumhead. And to make the way more weariful 

 by degrees the flouting companionship of the 



