44 THE BIRD LIFE OF FORMS Y. 



night, after another unsuccessful attempt at them, the writer quietly 

 sat himself down in his pet chair after dinner, and amid the cloud 

 of smoke from the favourite pipe, visions of those fat grey geese 

 came whirling in front of him. How was it that, whenever we 

 were out after curlews and dunlins on the shore, the geese came 

 within shot of almost every farm-hand near the place on the Moss 

 beat. Ask a labourer who had seen them, " Were they close to ? " 

 he would reply, " Close to ! I should think they wos. Ahr Jack 

 counted seventeen o' them sitting along th' ice, and he cu'd 'a 

 killed foive or six if he'd 'ad 'is gun wi' 'im." Then off we set 

 some evening, flighting for ducks on the Moss, and nary a goose 

 would we see. Next day, perhaps, strolling along the shore looking 

 for shells or other marine curios, a fisherman would hail us and 

 tell us great stories of geese that had to be " shoo'ed " at 

 before they'd rise. And so, amid the ever-changing wreaths of 

 smoke-cloud drifting about in front of the writer's chair, little 

 wonder that a horde of great fat wild geese should appear and 

 mock at him, as a drowsy feeling comes over one, the pipe slowly 

 drops to the floor, the eyes close, the tired legs stretch out "of 

 their own accord," and and 



A cold winter afternoon is gradually drawing to a close, and 

 already the sun is sinking behind a great "mass" of pillow like 

 clouds over the sea away to the westward. The Moss is indeed a 

 dreary sight. The farther distance is shut out from our view by a 

 curtain of mist, and the land lies stretched out before us, covered 

 by a fresh fall of snow, relieved here and there by the gate-posts 



