A MOENING ON THE MARSHES 



S I was sitting over 

 the fire in my bachelor 

 quarters, smoking and 

 listening to the roar of 

 the equinoctial gale 

 amongst the chimneys, 

 and the patter of the 

 rain against the win- 

 dows, I received a letter 

 from my friend. Jack 



H , inviting me to 



shoot with him on a 

 certain small east- coast marshland island on the following 

 Wednesday. 



Only too glad of an excuse to escape from smoky, 

 muddy old London for a day amongst the fowl of the 

 marshes, I immediately despatched a reply to the effect 

 that I would leave Liverpool Street by the five-thirty 

 train on Tuesday evening. 



The appointed day came at last, slowly but surely, 

 as all pleasant and long-looked-for days do come, and a 



good hour before sunrise H and myself might have 



been seen bowling along the fifteen miles or so of russet- 

 tinted, bracken and bramble-fringed road which lay be- 

 tween my host's charming Georgian manor-house and 



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