The Marismas of Guadalquivir 103 
farther away. The harrier’s hope was clearly to find a wounded 
bird among the crowd—the massed multitude none dared to 
tackle. 
It is nine o'clock, the pile of dead has mounted up, but the 
“flight” is slackening. Already I see our mounted keepers 
(who have hitherto stood grouped on an islet two miles away) 
separate and ride forth to set the ducks once more in motion. 
At this precise moment one remembers two things—both that 
wretched breakfast at 3 a.m., and the luxuries that lie at hand, 
almost awash among the reeds. Ducks pass by unscathed for 
a full half-hour, while such quiet reigns in “No. 1” that tawny 
water-shrews climb confidingly up the reeds of my screen. 
Meanwhile the efforts of our drivers were becoming apparent in 
a renewal of flighting ducks; but we would here emphasise the 
fact that these second and artificially-produced flights are never 
so effective from a fowler’s point of view as the earlier, natural 
movements of the game. For the ducks thus disturbed come, 
as the Spanish keepers put it, obligados and not of their own 
free-will. Hence they all pass high—many far above gunshot— 
and not even the attraction that our fleet of “decoys” (for 
we have now stuck up the whole of the morning’s spoils to 
deceive their fellows) will induce more than a limited propor- 
tion, and those only the smaller bands, to descend from their 
aérial altitude. 
The “‘ movement” of these masses nevertheless affords another 
of those spectacular displays that we must at least try to describe. 
For though none of their sky-high armies will pass within 
gunshot—or ten gunshots—yet one cannot but be struck with 
amazement when the whole vault of heaven above presents a 
quivering vision of wings—shaded, seamed, streaked, and spotted 
from zenith to horizon. Then the multiplied pulsation of wings is 
distinctly perceptible—a singular sensation. One remembers it 
when, perhaps an hour later, you become conscious of its recur- 
rence. But now the heavens are clear! Nota single flight crosses 
the sky—not one, that is, within sight. But up above, beyond 
the limits of human vision, there pass unseen hosts, and thevrs is 
that pulsation you feel. 
The passage of these sky-scrapers is actuated by no puny 
manceuvre of ours. They are travellers on through-routes. 
Perhaps the last land (or water) they touched was Dutch or 
