MEMORIES OF GLENAUGH. 



me on days when I did not care to beat the 

 heather for snipe. I was confident of some 

 shooting there, and the most agreeable feature 

 about the sport was the uncertainty of what 

 you could pick up. In wild weather, when the 

 wind roared and whistled in from the white 

 breakers under the grey sky, great flocks of 

 plover wheeled up the creek, and gave me 

 many a chance of a broadside. There was no 

 necessity for a boat. The banks were close 

 together, and with the aid of a stout retriever 

 and the fortune of the birds tumbling on the 

 ground instead of the water, losses from acci- 

 dent were very few. An old barn stood on one 

 edge of the Pill. Behind the broken wall of 

 this, and commanding the passage which the 

 red shank, widgeon, or plover generally took, 

 I used to place myself. It was often quick and 

 hot work enough, especially with an east or a 

 north gale. On such occasions I always ex- 

 pected better fun than usual. During calm 

 days the best bags were to be made of curlew 

 (a poor bird on a dish no matter what may be 

 said for it), and a bird that I called a sea pie, 

 though I am not sure whether that is the cor- 



