A BIRD COLLECTOR'S MEDLEY. 



CHAPTER II. 

 SHORE SHOOTING ON FOOT. 



SHORE SHOOTING may take several forms ; you may, especially in the 

 autumn, tramp the muds and marshes on foot ; you may explore the estuary 

 and its creeks in a flat-bottomed boat or gunning punt ; or you may charter 

 a sailing boat, cross the bar, and venture forth on the open sea. In the first 

 two cases the sport will be chiefly amongst the Waders ; in the latter there is 

 in winter time a reasonable prospect of meeting with some Duck and Divers, 

 while in summer, if there are cliffs in the neighbourhood, some variety may be 

 picked up in the way of a rock bird. 



If it is decided to go on foot, there should be no half-measures. The man 

 who sallies forth equipped with spats and gaiters, and means jumping the 

 drains, may indeed ward off a liver attack, and will certainly make away with 

 much shoe leather, but as for shots, not a bird worth killing will wait till he 

 comes within range. No : the only sensible way of doing things is to discard 

 all clothing below a pair of old shorts, put on sand-shoes to protect the feet from 

 small Crustacea, and descend into the drains themselves. The mention of a 

 drain may suggest to some a sort of " cloaca maxima," or other such horror ; 

 but the term is used to denote those channels which the sea eats out amidst 

 the saltings, and which have nothing objectionable about them beyond the 

 inherent stickiness of the mud. One soon gets to know the likely corners, 

 and grand shots may be obtained as you come round them, more particularly 

 if there happen to be any Greenshanks in the neighbourhood. 



For real temper-testing qualities commend me to the Greenshank. It is 

 a sufficiently rare bird to make the ordinary collector consider it a prize, while 

 it is possessed of an extraordinary wariness which lends a peculiar charm to 

 its pursuit. How well I remember my first long and unsuccessful chase ! 

 For four consecutive days we saw two Greenshanks in the marshes. Once 

 they rose just as we were jumping a dyke ; once a Redshank put them up 

 when we had nearly crawled within range ; a third good chance was fumbled 

 away through sheer anxiety; and then, to crown all, the village blacksmith 

 got up early the next morning, shot both, and ate them ! It may be worth 



