THE BIRD LIFE OF FORM BY. 45 



and thicker rush beds. For two long weeks the maze of dytches 

 and even the " Cut " itself has been thronged with skaters, and the 

 ducks and teal are being tossed about in the Channel, living as 

 best they can on the unaccustomed diet of the bare mud flats. 

 The thaw of yesterday, which drove away the skaters from the 

 Mosslands, has again left us, and once more King Winter rules 

 supreme. 



Here are Jim and the writer tramping off down the snowy 

 road towards a well-known "clough," where we know will be open 

 water. It is an awkward place to shoot. In the autumn we can 

 only reach the spot with the aid of the leaping-pole, for that 

 particular place lies amid a score of deep broad dytches, full of 

 cold, black-looking, peaty water. How I wish I had brought the 

 old dog, but he was quite forgotten until we were well on our way. 

 Here and there, on crossing some flooded field, now ice-bound, the 

 snow gave way beneath us and let us into a foot of cold water, 

 showing that the thaw had partly done its work, and that the 

 Moss was no longer to be trusted as a skating ground. After a 

 short scramble and a few awkward jumps with the long pole, we 

 reached the Chisnel Clou', as the big ditch is called, and all along 

 the edge of the snow-covered ice round the open water, we see the 

 traces of the innumerable .wild fowl which have fed there the last 

 few nights. The snow is covered with the imprints of their webbed 

 feet, and here and there feathers are to be seen in plenty, showing 

 that the place has not been long forsaken, or the feathers would have 

 been blown away. Jim goes 80 yards to the north, and the writer 



