GRADUATING IN WOODCRAFT.
We hear the cry
Of their voices high,
Falling dreamily through the sky;
But their forms we cannot see.
Just as the sportsman loves "rough shooting," so the poacher invariably
chooses wild ground for his depredations. There is hardly a sea-parish
in the country which has not its shore shooter, its poacher, and its
fowler. Fortunately for my graduation in woodcraft I fell in with one of
the latter at the very time I most needed his instructions. As the
"Snig," as I was generally called, was so passionately fond of "live"
things, old "Kittiwake" was quite prepared to be companionable.
Although nearly three score years and ten divided our lives, there was
something in common between us. Love of being abroad beneath the moon
and stars; of wild wintry skies; of the weird cries that came from out
the darkness--love of everything indeed that pertained to the night side
of nature. What terrible tales of the sands and marshes the old man
would tell as we sat in his turf-covered cottage, listening to the
lashing storm and driving water without. Occasionally we heard sounds of
the Demon Huntsman and his Wish-hounds as they crossed the wintry skies.
If Kittiwake knew, he would never admit that these were the wild swans
coming from the north, which chose the darkest nights for their
migration. When my old tutor saw that I was already skilled in the use
of "gins" and "springes," and sometimes brought in a snipe or woodcock,
his old eyes glistened as he looked upon the marsh-birds. It was on one
such occasion, pleased at my success, that he offered what he had never
offered to mortal--to teach me the whole art of fowling. I remember the
old man as he lay on his heather bench when he made this magnanimous
offer. In appearance he was a splendid type of a northern yeoman, his
face fringed with silvery hair, and cut in the finest features. One eye
was bright and clear even at his great age, though the other was rheumy,
and almost blotted out. He rarely undressed at nights, his outward garb
seemed more a production of nature than of art, and was changed, when,
like the outer cuticle of the marsh vipers, it sloughed off. It was only
in winter that the old man lived his lonely life on the mosses and
marshes, for during the summer he turned from fowler to fisher, or
assisted in the game preserves. The haunts and habits of the marsh and
shore birds he knew by heart, and his great success in taking them lay
in the fact that he was a close and accurate observer. He would watch
the fowl, then set his nets and noozes by the light of his acquired
knowledge. These things he had always known, but it was in summer, when
he was assisting at pheasant rearing, that he got to know all about
game in fur and feather. He noted that the handsome cock pheasants
always crowed before they flew up to roost; that in the evening the
partridges called as they came together in the grass lands; and he
watched the ways of the hares as they skipped in the moonlight. These
things we were wont to discuss when wild weather prevented our leaving
the hut; and all our plans were tested by experiment before they were
put into practice. It was upon these occasions, too, that the garrulous
old man would tell of his early life. That was the time for fowl; but
now the plough had invaded the sea-birds' haunt. He would tell of
immense flocks of widgeon, of banks of brent geese, and clouds of
dunlin. Bitterns used to boom and breed in the bog, and once, though
only once, a great bustard was shot. In his young days Kittiwake had
worked a decoy, as had his father and grandfather before him; and when
any stray fowler or shore-shooter told of the effect of a single shot of
their big punt-guns, he would cap their stories by going back to the
days of decoying. Although decoying had almost gone out, this was the
only subject that the old man was reticent upon, and he surrounded the
craft with all the mystery he was able to conjure up. The site of his
once famous decoy was now drained, and in summer ruddy corn waved above
it. Besides myself, Kittiwake's sole companion on the mosses was an old
shaggy galloway, and it was almost as eccentric and knowing as its
master. So great was the number of gulls and terns that bred on the
mosses, that for two months during the breeding season the old horse was
fed upon their eggs. Morning and evening a basketful was collected, and
so long as these lasted Dobbin's coat continued sleek and soft.
In August and September we would capture immense numbers of
"flappers"--plump wild ducks--but, as yet, unable to fly. These were
either caught in the pools, or chased into nets which we set to
intercept them. As I now took more than my share of the work, and made
all the gins, springes, and noozes which we used, a rough kind of
partnership sprung up between us. The young ducks brought us good
prices, and there was another source of income which paid well, but was
not of long duration. There is a short period in each year when even the
matured wild ducks are quite unable to fly. The male of the common wild
duck is called the mallard, and soon after his brown duck begins to sit
the drake moults the whole of its flight feathers. So sudden and
simultaneous is this process that for six weeks in summer the usually
handsome drake is quite incapable of flight, and it is probably at this
period of its ground existence that the assumption of the duck's plumage
is such an aid to protection. Quite the handsomest of the wildfowl on
the marsh were a colony of sheldrakes which occupied a number of disused
rabbit-burrows on a raised plateau overlooking the bay. The ducks were
bright chestnut, white, and purple, and in May laid from nine to a dozen
creamy eggs. As these birds brought high prices for stocking ornamental
waters, we used to collect the eggs and hatch them out under hens in the
turf cottage. This was a quite successful experiment up to a certain
point; but the young fowl, immediately they were hatched, seemed to be
able to smell the salt water, and would cover miles to gain the creek.
With all our combined watchfulness the downy ducklings sometimes
succeeded in reaching their loved briny element, and once in the sea
were never seen again. The pretty sea swallows used to breed on the
marsh, and the curious ruffs and reeves. These indulged in the strangest
flights at breeding time, and it was then that we used to capture the
greatest numbers. We took them alive in nets, and then fattened them on
soaked wheat. The birds were sent all the way to London, and brought
good prices. By being kept closely confined and frequently fed, in a
fortnight they became so plump as to resemble balls of fat, and then
brought as much as a florin a piece. If care were not taken to kill the
birds just when they attained to their greatest degree of fatness they
fell rapidly in condition, and were nearly worthless. To kill them we
were wont to pinch off the head, and when all the blood had exuded the
flesh remained white and delicate. Greater delicacies even than ruffs
and reeves were godwits, which were fatted in like manner for the table.
Experiments in fattening were upon one occasion successfully tried with
a brood of greylag geese which we discovered on the marshes. As this is
the species from which the domestic stock is descended, we found little
difficulty in herding, though we were always careful to house them at
night, and pinioned them as the time of the autumnal migration came
round. We well knew that the skeins of wild geese which at this time
nightly cross the sky, calling as they fly, would soon have robbed us of
our little flock.
In winter, snipe were always numerous on the mosses, and were among the
first birds to be affected by severe weather. If on elevated ground when
the frost set in, they immediately betake themselves to the lowlands,
and at these times we used to take them in pantles made of twisted
horsehair. In preparing these we trampled a strip of oozy ground until,
in the darkness, it had the appearance of a narrow plash of water. The
snipe were taken as they came to feed on ground presumably containing
food of which they were fond. As well as woodcock and snipe, we took
larks by thousands. The pantles for these we set somewhat differently
than those intended for the minor game birds. A main line, sometimes as
much as a hundred yards in length, was set along the marsh; and to this
at short intervals were attached a great number of loops of horsehair in
which the birds were strangled. During the migratory season, or in
winter when larks are flocked, sometimes a hundred bunches of a dozen
each would be taken in a single day.
During the rigour of winter great flocks of migratory ducks and geese
came to the bay, and prominent among them were immense flocks of
scoters. Often from behind an ooze bank did we watch parties of these
playing and chasing each other over the crests of the waves, seeming
indifferent to the roughest seas. The coming of the scoter brought flush
times, and in hard weather our takes were tremendous. Another of the
wild ducks which visited us was the pochard or dunbird. We mostly called
it "poker" and "redhead," owing to the bright chestnut of its neck and
head. It is somewhat heavily made, swims low in the water, and from its
legs being placed far behind for diving it is very awkward on land. In
winter the pochard was abundant on the coast, but as it was one of the
shyest of fowl it was always difficult to approach. If alarmed it
paddles rapidly away, turning its head, and always keeping an eye to the
rear. On account of its wariness it is oftener netted than shot. The
shore-shooters hardly ever get a chance at it. We used to take it in the
creeks on the marsh, and, as the matter is difficult to explain, I will
let the following quotation tell how it was done:
"The water was surrounded with huge nets, fastened with poles laid flat
on the ground when ready for action, each net being, perhaps, sixty feet
long and twenty feet deep. When all was ready the pochards were
frightened off the water. Like all diving ducks they were obliged to
fly low for some distance, and also to head the wind before rising. Just
as the mass of birds reached the side of the pool, one of the immense
nets, previously regulated by weights and springs, rose upright as it
was freed from its fastenings by the fowler from a distance with a long
rope. If this were done at the right moment the ducks were met full in
the face by a wall of net, and thrown helpless into a deep ditch dug at
its foot for their reception."
In addition to our nets and snares we had a primitive fowling-piece,
though we only used it when other methods failed. It was an ancient
flint-lock, with tremendously long barrels. Sometimes it went off;
oftener it did not. I well remember with what desperation I, upon one
occasion, clung to this murderous weapon whilst it meditated, so to
speak. It is true that it brought down quite a wisp of dunlins, but then
there was almost a cloud of them to fire at. These and golden plover
were mainly the game for the flint-lock, and with them we were
peculiarly successful. If we had not been out all night we were
invariably abroad at dawn, when golden plover fly and feed in close
bodies. Upon these occasions sometimes a dozen birds were bagged at a
shot, though, after all, the chief product of our days were obtained in
the cymbal nets. We invariably used a decoy, and when the wild birds
were brought down, and came within the workings of the net, it was
rapidly pulled over and the game secured. For the most part, however,
only the smaller birds were taken in this way. Coots came round in their
season, and although they yielded a good harvest, netting them was not
very profitable, for as their flesh was dark and fishy only the
villagers and fisher-folk would buy them.
A curious little bird, the grebe or dabchick, used to haunt the pools
and ditches of the marsh, and we not unfrequently caught them in the
nets whilst drawing for salmon which ran up the creek to spawn. They had
curious feet, lobed like chestnut leaves, and hardly any wing. This
last was more like a flipper, and upon one occasion, when no less than
three had caught in the meshes, a dispute arose between us as to whether
they were able to fly. Kittiwake and I argued that whilst they were
resident and bred in the marshes, yet their numbers were greatly
augmented in autumn by other birds which came to spend the winter.
Whilst I contended that they flew, Kittiwake said that their tiny wings
could never support them, and certainly neither of us had ever seen them
on their journeyings. Two of the birds we took a mile from the water,
and then threw them into the air, when they darted off straight and
swift for the mosses which lay stretched at our feet a mile below.
[Illustration]