When the tide was full, when we could see shadowy boats steaming down the distant channel seaward, the grey geese came, following the water from their sandbank refuges, now many feet below the tide. Only for a minute did we see the pack, then they settled, hidden in the mist; one or two skeins broke from the main body, flying inland towards the fields. Fine birds, these pink-footed geese, as with outstretched necks they swing along in regular line with steady, powerful strokes; there is nothing in their wild freedom to suggest the awkward, waddling, averted birds of the farmyard. They are geese of the wilds, of the mists and driving spume, ever alert, ever free, birds of the mysterious North.
In the white farm by the cart-track lived the old wildfowler, the man who knew the birds and where to find them. He could tell when they would come from northern lands, knew when they would return; he knew where they would be met with at any hour of day or night, feeding on the grass, resting on the banks, or swimming on the tide. He was one of the few who, as often as not, could outwit than, taking toll of their numbers by his skill and patience; he was a sportsman of the old school, a man of first-hand knowledge, very critical and often scornful of modern methods. In spite of years—he was then past the proverbial human allowance—of much exposure to the wildest weather on the darkest, coldest nights, he was still hale and hearty, well able to guide and govern his extensive farm, for he had inland cornfields and pastures, and grazing over miles and miles of the broad marshes. With his sons and five of the smartest dogs in the district he tended a huge army of sheep, gathering them from the furthest confines of the marsh to fold them safe from the rising tide, and sending them back at the ebb to feed on salt-freshened turf. Though by force of circumstances he had deserted the hereditary
