ON THE SALT-MARSHES 



LD Gilson, our sldpper 

 and professional punts- 

 man, having obtained a 

 couple of days' leave to 

 attend the wedding of his 

 youngest daughter, we 

 had, perforce, to kill time 

 as best we could dur- 

 ing his absence, for the 

 somewhat heavy double- 

 handed punt, built to 

 carry a breech-loading 

 stanchion gun, was altogether too much for one man to 

 handle. We therefore elected to do a bit of shore- 

 popping. The sun was just rising above the horizon as 

 we were performing our matutinal ablutions in the 

 cockpit of the light-draught 15-ton yawl which forms 

 our floating cottage whenever we go a-fowling. 



A more glorious sunrise it would be difficult to 

 imagine. The eastern sky was simply a blaze of colour 

 — fiery red, rose-pink, carmine, gold, and turquoise — 

 and the rippleless, mirror-like surface of the tide re- 

 flected the glory until it appeared to be a veritable 

 "painted ocean." We have watched the sun rise and 



set in the tropics ; we have gazed in awed admiration 



196 



