56 A BIRD COLLECTOR'S MEDLEY. 



the night, but beyond this nothing is certain. You may tramp them from 

 end to end and see nothing, and another shooter coming half an hour 

 later may find himself surrounded with migrants in fresh from the sea. I 

 have heard, though I have never seen it, of the bushes being "smothered" 

 with birds. Or again, the birds may be in the bushes and refuse to come 

 out, in which case, as far as you are concerned, they might just as well 

 not be there at all. Various methods have been tried to effect their 

 ejection. Some have hired men to beat with sticks, others have dragged 

 ropes across the top, and ordinary individuals simply take the bull by the 

 horns and tramp through them; but, generally speaking, the birds either 

 come out rapidly of their own accord, or skulk and remain unmoved by 

 any device. 



When they do pop out, they are still many degrees removed from the 

 cabinet. In the first place, you may fire too soon and blow them to 

 pieces, or, while refraining until they have reached the requisite distance, 

 wait too long, and see them unexpectedly vanish in the scrub ; and 

 sometimes, most maddening of all, when the bird is brought to bag 

 uninjured, subsequent exposure or shaking causes it to go bad before the 

 day is out. Most people prefer a twelve-bore loaded with a half-charge ol 

 No. 8, while others advocate dust-shot packed very loosely. But, whatever 

 charge be used, I am convinced that if a real rarity is obtained it should 

 be carried in the hand, head downwards, to allow the juices to escape, 

 with a thin piece of paper wrapped loosely round the body, and, even 

 before this is done, the bird should be laid on the sand beneath the shade 

 of a bush until it has had time to stiffen. 



My own experiences of the bushes have been varied and typical in the 

 main. Entering them for the first time one bright September morning, we 

 were greeted at once by the well-known note of the Titlark, and later on 

 some Whinchats and dubious-looking Reed-Buntings perched temptingly 

 on the higher sprays. 



Suddenly there is the flicker of a red tail between some twigs, and out 

 darts the owner like a flash. At first sight it appears to be a Redstart, 

 but ere its species can be surely decided, it is buried again in the thickest 

 recesses of the cover. A few vigorous kicks put it out once more into the 

 open, and a second glance reveals the welcome fact that the red only 

 covers half the tail, and thus proclaims the presence of that delightful 

 Arctic visitor, the Bluethroat. It falls to my brother's gun, and proves 

 to be a perfect specimen of an immature bird, disappointing only in the 

 absence of the blue gorget, which is at this age replaced by a ring of 



