near enough for us to see the markings on its breast and its strong moustachial patch. It sailed over flocks of startled waders and then began to mount; it had singled out a victim, a straggling dunlin or sanderling. Down it came with a magnificent swoop, but the scared wader dodged and the pursuer missed. Up it went again, then down once more, and four or five times the fugitive eluded the deadly stoop. Then the falcon changed its plans, and, following every turn and twist of its quarry, actually flew it down. As it passed, flying landward, we could see it plucking its victim, getting ready for the meal.
When the gutter was fordable, a huge expanse of sand stretched once more towards the Welsh shore, and to the anchored fishing-boats, now heeled over, in the gutter off the stranded port of Parkgate.
