A SUNDAY ON BREYDON. 373 



At last the Eel must have succumbed, for the Gull, assuming 

 his ordinary freeness of deportment, walks deliberately to a 

 puddle and sips with ease. 



The prettiest birds upon the wing are the Little Terns. There 

 are several about, both old and very immature young. Hither 

 and thither, mostly with heads to wind, they fly, with bills 

 pointed vertically downward, ready the moment those keen eyes 

 detect a little Herring dashing about below to fall upon it, 

 seldom to miss their aim ; and when any small fry has been 

 secured, away they go to the edge of a flat, where the young- 

 sters, with the up-winged fussiness of Pigeon squabs, snatch at and 

 catch the fish as it drops from the parental bill. The light, 

 airy-winged creatures are beautiful to look at, and one is glad 

 the month's extension of close-time (to all save Ducks) gives the 

 fairy-like Tern a chance of passing south before the indiscrimi- 

 nate gunner has the opportunity for destroying such gems in 

 feathers. 



There are unusually few Herons about to-day. Two only at 

 the present time are within view — one a bird of the year, the 

 other, I should say, a " three-year-older." The latter I now saw 

 strike an Eel in the "run" he is standing knee-deep in. The 

 Eel weighs, I should say, at least half a pound, and, tightly 

 gripping the lively fish, the Heron walks deliberately out on to 

 the flat. For fully ten minutes that bird plays with it— plays, I 

 say — but there is no doubt, in letting the Eel fall upon the 

 " grass," in which it vainly tries to squirm, he is only endea- 

 vouring to get a better grip, and at each strike he pinches 

 peevishly ; a dozen times at least does the Heron drop that Eel, 

 and as many times does he seize it again; now and then some 

 filaments of weed blow, pennant-like, from his bill. I have seen 

 a Heron thus engaged bullied and pursued by three or four less 

 fortunate fellows, to finally lose it, having dropped its prey on the 

 mud below, where it has promptly buried itself in the ooze, to 

 the annoyance of all, and the great chagrin of one. Our friend 

 yonder has no rivals, and at length, having knocked all resistance 

 out of it, he bolts his prey, taking a sip in the same way the Gull 

 has done; and having in all likelihood slightly "overloaded his 

 stomach " — for he has been fishing for half an hour — he draws 

 his head into his shoulders, lifts one leg, and takes a nap. The 



