AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 55 



of a lone plover, sounding, as it were, quite 

 close to you, although she might be miles 

 up in the air. On such nights, Uncle Joe, 

 having ascertained by the almanack that the 

 moon would rise over the verge of the swamp 

 at a favourable hour, would prepare for a raid 

 on the wild duck. Muffled in thick coats, and 

 accompanied by Jack Sullivan, my uncle's 

 henchman, who bore pads of dry straw for us to 

 sit upon, we wended our way to the moor. 

 How silent and bleak it was, the pools shining 

 here and there ; and fishing by their edges, or 

 sleeping on one leg, stood grey, ghastly herons. 

 A snipe would occasionally start up, and sail like 

 a hawk over our heads, or an owl would come 

 sheering from somewhere out of the dark, his 

 noiseless wings skimming the ground as he 

 sought for a meal of field mice. But not for 

 these did we come. Jumping across the dyke 

 which divides the roadway from the marsh we 

 now creep along the turf, softer than the softest 

 pile carpet. " Hark ! Down boys ! down I" 

 whispers Uncle Joe. A high querulous 

 whistle, answered by a fat quack! quack! We 

 all lie on our faces. There is a minute of 



