SAND DUKES AND SALT MARSHES 



tlie moonlight permeates everything. Many 

 such scenes have I enjoyed in times gone by 

 when I hunted, the black duck by moonlight, 

 and I think I may be forgiven when I confess 

 that I never succeeded at Ipswich in shooting 

 a single duck at this unholy time. The won- 

 derful beauty of these nights well repaid the 

 long cold vigils. Everything seemed as bright 

 as day, and one felt sure that an object as 

 large and dark as a black duck would easily 

 be visible. Yet many a time ducks have flown 

 by so closely that their wing strokes whistled 

 loud in my ears, but peer as I might, they 

 remained invisible, imless perchance they flew 

 across the moon or its beams reflected from 

 the ice or water. 



All things come to an end in time, and the 

 last ice cake, honeycombed and darkened with 

 sand and mud gathered on its joumeyings to 

 and fro, vanishes, and the marsh is left brown 

 and prostrate from its winter's battle. All 

 the graceful thatch is broken off and lines the 

 edges of the uplands in great mats, and the 

 mud where it grew is open to the sky. Spring 

 has long visited the uplands, soaked in fresh 

 water from melting snow and spring rains, 

 before it awakens the salt marshes. These 



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