AT THE ESTUARY 129 



through the air parallel with the earth and water, 

 and it froze to an icy cake as it struck my coat. 

 Ducks no doubt came in on that ravening storm, 

 but I could not see them, could hardly hold the gun, 

 and it took half-an-hour to struggle half a mile 

 against the whizz of snow and sand. The sand was 

 whipped up, and whirled in vicious showers that bit 

 and stung. For the first time in my life I knew of 

 the penetrating power of sand caught and scourged 

 by a gale. My boots were full of it. Sand covered 

 my wet gun, and was mixed in the sheet of snow-ice 

 which fell or peeled off one side of my greatcoat 

 in thin slabs when at last I struggled indoors. I 

 yearned to take shelter by lying down behind a 

 mound covered by marram grass, but was afraid to 

 do so, for the storm seemed as if it might last for 

 hours. The hardiest bird will not set its breast to 

 such a storm as this on the seashore at night. 



On ordinary evenings the curlews whistle to each 

 other, and assemble in little knots and roosting 

 parties. I think they must sleep, yet throughout 

 the night their beautiful note can be heard. I have 

 tried to see the whistling curlews on a fairly quiet 

 evening when the sky is overcast. I seem to come 

 nearer and nearer the whistling, but there is something 

 deceptive about it, for I cannot come near enough 

 to see a curlew, though each step promises the dis- 

 covery of a dark form on the snowy-looking sand. 

 The curlew is silently up and off just before I am 



I 



