190 BIRD-LIFE OF THE BORDERS. 



however, befell us. When well within range the nearer 

 stragglers began to "lift," and inside the same instant the 

 roar of a thousand wings blended with the louder boom of 

 the big gun, and a charge of No. 3 traversed their ranks. 

 And now the silvery sea is strewn with dead, and shoving 

 full speed ahead, the cripple-stopper is brought to bear on 

 any that show 7 signs of life. There are few cripples at 

 night, and in less time than it takes to write this, all that 

 we can see are secured, and a dozen or more of handsome 

 Mallards and Wigeon will amply justify the prudence of 

 the earlier hours of the night. 



There still wanted over four hours to the dawn, when there 

 was a possibility of again falling in with the ducks ere they 

 take wing for the open sea. How to spend these hours is 

 an ever-recurring problem in night-punting. To drop anchor 

 and coil oneself up as snugly as is compatible with circum- 

 stances appears the easiest mode, but it is madness. So 

 long as a man remains awake and in action, no cold will 

 hurt ; but to go to sleep in the night air is the height of 

 folly, and sooner or later entails certain retribution. Suffice 

 it to add, that a rather long shot, just before daybreak, in- 

 creased the spoils of the night by another pair or two of 

 Wigeon. 



After a few hours' turn-in, and an unsuccessful campaign 

 with the geese on the afternoon tide, we again went afloat at 

 midnight. Again the ducks were there in hosts, but the 

 conditions were changed. The sky was overcast, and the 

 moon obscured by heavy drifting clouds, and, though several 

 times close up to the coveted fowl, it was impossible in the 

 darkness to make out their position, and we failed to obtain 

 a shot. Once I was on the point of pulling trigger, but at 

 the nick of time a glint of moonlight disclosed the fact that 

 the dark objects ahead were not ducks, but some floes of 

 drift ice, turning over, upwards and edgeways, in the tide- 

 current, and whose moving outline closely resembled a nice 

 "bunch" of fowl. Then, after eight of the coldest hours' 

 patient effort, we returned to breakfast without a feather. 



