A COLD FOWLING CRUISE 215 



stalk noiselessly over the snow until I reached the thorn- 

 bush. Then came another climb up the face of the 

 embankment, and the sleeves of my coat were very soon 

 filled with frozen atoms. But what cared I providing I 

 could get a shot into the long-billed fowl ? After a 

 good deal of slipping and slithering, my head was on a 

 level with the growers of the bush. Pushing my gun 

 very gingerly before me, I peered between the frozen 

 blades of bent-grass, and to my joy discovered that three 

 of the curlew were sitting so closely together that a single 

 cartridge should have accounted for the leash. " Bang ! " 

 A couple drop with scarcely a quiver, and the third, 

 sorely wounded, attempts to rise, but failing, tries to run 

 seawards. He is too hard hit. As the remainder of the 

 herd rise from the ooze I cover one and pull, but an 

 ominous " click " tells of a missfire, and away string the 

 curlew unscathed, and with almost as much noise as a 

 herd of stampeding cattle. 



Having gathered the slain from the almost knee-deep 

 ooze, I sat for a short time under the leeward side of the 

 sea-wall to eat a biscuit and cheese. While enjoying 

 that frugal repast I heard the fanning sound of wings 

 overhead, and looking upwards saw a big bunch of lap- 

 wing heading inland. 



The birds were flying at an altitude of at least eighty 

 yards, but out of sheer " cussedness " I fired a couple 

 of barrels at them, and to my surprise one of the plover 

 doubled up to my first shot, and with a thud fell almost 

 at my feet. Thoroughly satisfied with the morning's 



