CHAPTER III 



A SPRING DAY AT THE HAUNT OF THE GREY GEESE 



A FINE spring day in late March. For a full week 

 the wind has been blowing half a gale from the west 

 • or south-west, but on the morning of which I write 

 it is moderating, and the air is of an exceptional clear- 

 ness, with deep blue sky flecked with white fleecy clouds. 

 Westward, big snow wreaths linger on the Cheviots — the 

 result of a recent storm from the north — and from the nearer 

 hills blue smoke rises from more than one heather fire. 



The scene is the remote and wind-swept Ross Links on 

 the Northumbrian coast between Bamburgh and Holy Island, 

 a paradise for all shore-frequenting birds from September 

 until the early days of May. The spring is far advanced, 

 and already the hedges are green in sheltered spots, and the 

 daffodils in bloom in the farm gardens. Farmers are every- 

 where sowing, harrowing, or setting in their potatoes, and 

 the season promises uncommonly well. Along the RoSs 

 Links many lapwing nest. The period of their laying has 

 as yet barely commenced, but the air resounds with their 

 joyous cries, and it is good to see their fine dashing flight as 

 they wheel and tumble through the air, feeling to the full 

 the impulse of life and of springtide. 



For awhile I lie in the shelter of a thorn hedge, spying 

 the adjoining field for any early nesters among these birds, 

 when all unsuspectingly a flock of about forty grey geese, 

 flying in from the eastward, alight in the field and at once 

 commence feeding. Very graceful did they look as they flew 

 deliberately up in the teeth of the breeze, and now they graze 

 actively on the fresh young grass. Every now and again they 



