276 



THE LAST DAY OF WILDFOWLING. 



A LUCKY WIND UP. 



AFTEB a mild and open winter, which on our coast had 

 been almost totally unproductive of fowl, we betook our- 

 selves on the evening of the 27th February to the remote 

 fishing hamlet at which we have long established our wild- 

 fowling headquarters to try our luck in a final day's cam- 

 paign, for the end of the season was rapidly approaching. 

 By the way, it may be remarked that there is no conceivable 

 reason why Wild Geese and Wigeon should not be killed in 

 March. The legal restrictions are a cruel injustice to many 

 a poor fisherman -fowler ; but figs do not grow on thorns, 

 and it is about as reasonable to expect politicians to under- 

 stand such subjects as to ask a punt-gunner to settle the 

 Irish question. Well, it was dark enough as the slow train 

 at last pulled up at the roadside station, but presently the 

 clouds passed away, the full moon shone out, and the long 

 radiating columns of the "northern lights" flickered 

 brightly across the heavens as we traversed the water-logged 

 sand-flats. The longest road has an end at last, and we 

 are presently hard at work on the ham-and-eggs in our 

 snug den, in a hamlet redolent of fish and things pisca- 

 torial. There only remained to us one day to shoot (for the 

 1st of March was a Sunday), and we determined to make 

 the most of it, albeit our chances of success in so extremely 

 mild a season were very remote. Accordingly, after a couple 

 of hours' " snooze," on two hard oak chairs, I turned out 

 at midnight, and passing through the tortuous little street, 

 paved with the shells of defunct generations of mussels and 

 cockles, proceeded to launch our trim little craft, the 



