THE WINTER YELLOW-LEGS 179 
webbed on his middle and outer toes he is a fair 
swimmer at need. 
Lonely sea-beach, rockweed-covered ledge, or 
wind-swept expanse of waving grass with its 
bright strips of water reflecting the blue above 
—these are the haunts of the many birds num- 
bered among the ‘‘bay snipe,’’ and though the 
woodcock enthusiast and grouse hunter is in- 
clined to belittle this style of shooting it is not 
every bungler who can ‘‘make a double’’ on 
these swift coursers of the marsh, and it is very 
pleasant in the bright August days for the 
sportsman to sit in his innocent looking blind 
at the edge of a promising pool or to wander 
from one feeding ground to another—from 
muddy creek to brown-margined ‘‘pond-hole,’’ 
with his gun ever ready for the chance which 
fortune may send him. A clear, bright day, the 
sun glinting in diamond points on the blue 
waves and glistening on the sails far out at sea; 
the dazzling white of the sandbanks and the 
bar which marks the river’s mouth showing 
through the breaks in the tall grass; and the 
mellow pipings of the birds as the flocks sweep 
past in full career; all go to make a day’s outing 
fit to offset a year of care and worriment. How 
