AN OLD CHESHIRE WILD-FOWLER 125 



firm, determined mouth, fully exposed by a clean-shaven 

 upper lip; a skin tanned and wrinkled by many a keen 

 wind and salt-laden blizzard we have the picture of a 

 man who had conquered nature's wild forces, had stood 

 and withstood the bitter rigours of winter which had 

 slain many of his weaker fellows. 



When we entered the cosy parlour and sat down with the 

 family to a sumptuous repast, we saw our host hi his true 

 character, a yeoman farmer of the real Cheshire type. 

 Courteous, kindly, with that generous nature and open- 

 handed hospitality that marks the true gentleman, his 

 very independence made one feel at ease. With pride he 

 talked of the excitements of the chase; story after story, 

 racily told, flowed from his lips; at times he spoke with 

 scorn of ignorant bird hunters who could not make a bag. 

 Often he was asked to teach the art of wild- fowling, but, 

 though always ready to give a hint to anyone who was 

 really trying, even at the expense of a coveted shot, he 

 invariably refused to give the benefit of his long experience 

 to those who aimed at saving themselves the drudgery 

 of learning. In his narratives he mingled the Cheshire 

 vernacular with Lincolnshire long-shore names of birds, 

 for his father was a Lincolnshire man. " Billy th' Duck," 

 as the Wirral men nicknamed his father, came with his 

 broad, undecked punt and big gun from the eastern 

 seaboard to find virgin soil, or rather virgin mud and 

 sand, in the Dee estuary; there were no professional 

 wild-fowlers, no students of the art, when he first arrived 

 in Cheshire. 



Donning his sealskin coat, cap, and long boots, Billy 

 launched his punt, loaded his old muzzle-loader, and 

 paddled down the gutters to look for fowl. Two Neston 

 men, fishing in one of the channels, saw through the mist 

 a strange object approaching. " Look ye, a wha-al," cried 

 one; " see its flappers going !" They would have had a 



