A NIGHT'S BIG GUNNING 



HE chnrcli clock was 

 striking the hour of mid- 

 night as Caleb Gilson, 

 the professional wild- 

 fowler, and myself 

 walked down to the j etty, 

 alongside which was 

 moored the double - 

 handed gunning-punt. 



" Call me a Dutch- 

 man if this b'ain't a 

 master night for gunnin' ! 

 I'd give a day's catch o' herrin' to heve the owd 

 staunchion gun aboard," exclaimed the jersey-clad giant, 

 as he pointed to a broad silvery belt of light thrown by 

 the full moon athwart the grey waters of the wide 

 estuary. 



It was indeed an ideal night, or, rather, morning, for 

 fowling. The tide was almost as smooth as the proverbial 

 sea of oil, the light northerly wind was just what we re- 

 quired to sail the double-handed punt, under her small 

 lug-sail, to the fowling grounds amongst the ooze-flats 



and salt-marshes surrounding Island : and, last, 



but by no means least, the cloud-flecked face of the moon 

 cast sufficient light to render birds visible, as they paddled 



338 



