DOWN ON THE SALT-MARSHES 



It was still a good hour before sunrise when the cur- 

 lew-like whistle of old Jasper Collins, the professional 

 wildfowler, prompted me to hurry over my toilette. 

 Candle in hand, I groped my way down the narrow 

 staircase of the small, old-fashioned hostelry which 

 forms my head-quarters when I go a-fowling. A glass 

 of fortified milk and a biscuit furnished an ample break- 

 fast for me at such an early hour of the morning, but 

 the old gunner gave preference to a pint of purl (a 

 villainous concoction of beer and rum stirred with a 

 bunch of wormwood, but held in high esteem by marsh- 

 men and fenmen) and a " mossel o' cold spotted-dog 

 puddin'." Then we clattered up the narrow, crooked 

 street, the iron-studded soles of our heavy tuck-boots 

 playing the Devil's tattoo on the time-worn cobble- 

 stones. 



" Wind be roight, tide be roight. But do 'ee knock 

 out that flamin' fowl-scarin' pipe o' yourn, maister, 

 afore we reaches the wall ! " ejaculated my companion 

 as we neared the high embankment, beyond which lay 

 the salt-marshes. 



Jasper, though by no manner of means a teetotaler, 

 is wont to vote the smoking of tobacco " a masterful dis- 

 gustin' habit." But, truth to tell, he retires to rest 

 with a goodly plug of the soothing and aromatic herb 



G 8i 



