THE WINTER YELLOW-LEGS 181 
lows and reddish browns which betoken that our 
summer is gone—here it is that the crafty snipe 
will dart and twist with erratic and confusing 
flight to dodge the charge with which you fain 
would cut him down. At this season, too, it 
may chance that in some of these reed-edged 
pools the black duck is leading its family, now 
full-fledged, keen eyed and already abnormally 
sharp in the world’s harsh methods. But now 
*tis late summer, and through the sultry air 
from a distance comes the ‘‘ Winter’s”’ cry, far 
away and faint, the bird itself out of sight. In 
answer to the gunner’s mimicry comes back 
again the note from another quarter. His cir- 
cling flight has taken him a mile away, but still, 
mellow and musical, his far-reaching whistle, 
softened by the distance, is heard in answer to 
each luring call, and away in the sky the gun- 
ner sees him—a mere speck against the clouds. 
If the imitation is good and the bird is in social 
mood he comes nearer, calling again and again, 
quartering the marsh with his watchful eye 
alert for friend or foe. Now the sportsman lies 
close, well hidden by the stack of marsh grass— 
a perfect match for his hunting coat of dingy, 
yellowish brown,—or crouches in the waving 
