DOWN ON THE SALT-MARSHES 83 



portion of my anatomy is sheltered below the surface 

 of the surrounding salt-marshes, the wind blows round 

 my head most icily. 



The roar of the serf on the treacherous sand-bar, and 

 the dancing of the will-o'-the-wisp-like lights of weather- 

 bound sailing craft anchored in the ship roads, tell 

 of a heavy sea running in the main. Ever and anon the 

 weird, far-ranging cry of the curlew and redshank, the 

 plaintive call of the ring-plover and lapwing, and the curi- 

 ous bleat of a bar-tailed godwit are heard from the ooze- 

 banks lying beyond the fringe of saltings; while the 

 distant, hound-like clanging of a herd of grey geese 

 passing inland comes down to my tingling ears from 

 high up amongst the clouds. 



At length the grey streaks which herald the advent 

 of dawn begin to appear on the eastern horizon, and the 

 dancing lights of the shipping grow dim and pale as 

 darkness slowly but surely gives place to the uncertain 

 light of " peep o' day." Very soon now will the flight 

 commence, and, standing my old 12-bore in a corner of 

 the pit, I anxiously await the coming of anything wearing 

 feathers and worthy powder and shot. 



" Swish swish swish ! " a bunch of mallard flash 

 past the old duck-hole, and I obtain a momentary 

 glimpse of a number of hazy forms winging seaward at 

 something approaching one hundred miles per hour. 

 But ere I can get my gun up the ducks are out of danger. 



Well, better luck next time ! Nor am I kept long in 

 suspense, for following close in the wake of the mallard 

 comes a " spring " of teal, flying low and clean over 

 my hide. The " Normalis " in the old gun awakens the 

 slumbering echoes of the marshes. The report of the 



