cesses and triumphs leave their mark for a time; but there is ever something of pain mingled with them. These quiet enjoyments are bright resting-places in a man's life, whereon he loves to ponder. They come back sometimes so vividly, that one strives to grasp and secure them for ever. Moved by such an impulse, I have seated myself down and fixed a memory brought up by a chance allusion.

IX.

WATCHING FOR WILD DUCKS

No sort of shooting has such enthusiastic votaries as wildfowl shooting, or followers who will take so much trouble and undergo so much privation and inconvenience. Perhaps the cause of this is that the human mind has an irresistible hankering after what is difficult, and a pleasure in overcoming difficulty for the sake of overcoming alone. For my part, although I am extremely fond of wildfowl shooting, I cannot seriously argue that the amount of pleasure gained-putting aside the feeling just alluded to—in any way compensates for the discomforts attending its pursuit, yet I always pursue it when I have the chance, and would uphold the sport most strenuously were I able to do so. Of course there are many modes of

getting at wildfowl, but perhaps the most seductive is watching for the ducks at night as they come to some favourite feeding-place. To do this the night should be clear and starlit enough to enable you to see the ducks against the sky or water. Moonlit nights are not so favourable. A north-east wind and a keen frost are also most useful aids. Of course one must be well hidden from the birds, their powers of sight being very great. Sometimes a tub is sunk in the ground on the edge of the pool or marsh where the ducks assemble, and if this be partly filled with dry straw the shooter may keep himself tolerably warm as he lies ensconced in it. It is seldom, however, that such a shelter has been prepared beforehand, and more frequently the driest ditch one can find has to be chosen. it is possible, a boat should be used. The following short sketch will, I think, give the reader a fair idea of what watching for wildfowl really is.

But, whenever

It was one New Year's Eve. The winter had been very mild and open up to Christmas Day, and then a heavy fall of snow occurred, followed by a sharp frost, which brought the wildfowl down from the moors and mountain tarns to the more sheltered river, the greater part of which was free from ice. The day had been clear and cloudless; there was a light breeze

from the north-east, and for the first time during the winter did there seem a prospect of getting some wildfowl shooting. Accordingly, Jack and I had arranged to start about eight o'clock to an unfrequented part of the river, and we had sent a man on with the punt up the river, to leave it in readiness for us when we arrived at the spot.

After dinner, when we had joined the ladies, and one of them began to sing one of those charming old Scotch ballads, which in their simplicity are ten times prettier and sweeter than the run of modern music, I did not feel so ready to turn out in the cold as I could have wished. Indeed, I had a sort of half hope that Jack would feel equally loth to leave the comfortable drawing-room; and I resolved, if he did not mention it, to be careful not to draw his attention to our proposed shooting excursion. He was too keen a sportsman, however, to let an opportunity slip, and, just as I thought he had forgotten all about it, he said,

"Now, old fellow, time's up. It is no use your making yourself comfortable in that easy chair. You have got to change your dress, you know."

"It isn't eight o'clock yet," I pleaded.

"We must be there by eight o'clock, or we shall miss the flight."

Flight of what? Where are you going, Jack?” asked his sister.

“Wild ducks—shooting," said he, answering both her questions in the laconic and scarcely polite tone which brothers often adopt in speaking to their sisters.

"But you promised to play bezique with me," said Miss Clara in a reproachful tone.

"Ten thousand pardons, but I am afraid Jack can claim a prior promise;" and I unwillingly left the room with him, to dress more suitably for the occasion.

I had been loth to leave the drawing-room, but when we got out into the keen, frosty air my spirits rose, and the instinct, of the sportsman began to thrill through me, infusing its own peculiar pleasure. The snow lay deep on the ground, and muffled the sound of our footsteps. We took a short cut through the wood, where, however, it was so dark that we could scarcely find our way along the numerous rides. Startled by the cracking of the rotten branches underfoot, the ringdoves left their roosting-places in the fir trees, and shook down showers of snow from the laden branches. Leaving the wood, we crossed a meadow and took the path by the river's side for nearly a mile. A sudden plunge of some

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