THE SHORE IN WINTER. 115 



found on the fields. In the hand it can at once be distinguished by the 

 length of the hind toe. 



And now the sun is sinking, and the hour of the evening flight draws 

 nigh. It is time to think of taking up one's station for the Duck. But, 

 stay what are those grey forms circling slowly round some unseen object 

 on the shore ? They are Hooded or Royston Crows, those ever restless 

 alga inquisitores, who are ceaselessly engaged in prying into the refuse 

 above high-water mark, or poking their bills into the bushes to stir out any 

 injured creatures that may, perchance, be harbouring beneath their shade. 

 Their movements are always worth watching. This morning we came 

 upon the mangled carcase of a Mallard, one that had escaped the search 

 of the flight-shooters in the darkness, but was powerless to avoid the pitiless 

 instinct of the Hoodie. So now, as we advance towards them, there is the 

 momentary flash of a wing upon the shingle ; and the reluctant way in 

 which the Crows themselves retire before our approach confirms us in the 

 belief that they were engaged in hunting down some ill-fated bird. We 

 can see nothing, all the same, when we get there, even though we lie 

 down flat on the shingle to get a surer view. After a short and fruitless 

 search, we think it best to retire to the bushes, and, drawing out the field- 

 glasses, keep a steady watch on the suspected place. Ah ! there it is at last. 

 A head is cautiously raised from the shingle, the form of a Duck follows it, 

 and the owner makes off hurriedly for the sea. The moment we rise it 

 disappears again, and the shore is to all appearances bare. But we have 

 now got the line, and, advancing straight along it, soon perceive the form of 

 a Wigeon drake, laid prone with neck outstretched in a shallow hollow midst 

 the stones. It remains thus until we are within a few yards, hoping even now 

 to escape, and then at last, its craft abandoned, it dashes frantically for the sea. 

 It proves to be a foreign bird, smaller and compacter, but perhaps more 

 beautiful, than the larger sort. It had been badly winged by some punter 

 during last night's gunning in the estuary, and but for the astuteness of the 

 Crows it might have lingered some days in agony without any chance of 

 ultimate escape. 



And now the Duck are beginning to bestir themselves. Standing beside 

 a railway-carriage, we have a long crack at a Scaup beating in from the sea, 

 and a little later, ensconced in the grass behind the sea-wall, we get shots, at 

 uncertain intervals, at the flocks of Teal and Mallard that pass backward and 

 forward across the marsh. Alas! all too fast, the precious half-hour runs out, 

 and darkness sinks upon the dreary waste. 



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