leads one to the brow of a small hill looking out over the waters of the English Channel. The sheet of water I purposed visiting lies between this hill and the sea, separated from it only by a low line of sand-hills, and in one place by a flat plain which in gales of wind is completely inundated. At a glance one could see what a place it naturally is for wild fowl. A wide piece of water in the middle, the south-west end being closed in by a large and very thick reed-bed, the other extremity tapering off into a long series of narrow ponds and bogs,—something like Slapton on a smaller scale, but with the advantage of having a large mud estuary at its back, and of being in a more retired position,—having no roads near it, to say nothing of "Sand Hotels," the only habitations being an old hulk drawn up on the beach for the coast-guard, and a deserted and ruinous cottage which has sheltered many a wild-fowler, with his death-dealing punt-gun and almost invisible punt close by, among the rushes within a few yards of the door. I walked down across the rough heath and furze to the edge of the pond to meet the keeper, who was rowing across in a canoe. Getting in this we started to visit the strange birds. As we went along, I questioned the man as to Ducks, &c., breeding, of which there were plenty, as well as Teal, although I did not see any of the latter. Coots, Moorhens and Dabchicks we saw in numbers; and, what is much more interesting to ornithologists, about thirty Pochards had been hatched out there this year, but the eels or other fish had destroyed the greater part of them. We were now approaching a long outstretching rushy point, which divided off the broad sheet of water from the ponds—a place much appreciated by the Coot-shooter. At the end of this point were several small rushy islands, and these had been selected for the breeding place of a party of Black-headed Gulls; and this bird it was that had puzzled the keeper. He did not think it could be "a Gull, as it was so small and had a black head." I told him not to disturb them, as they would do no injury, and were a great addition to the charm of that lonely sheet of water, which, without its bird-life, would serve one's mind to look back upon as an image of desolation. On returning from the Gulls' nests, one of which contained a young bird—the colony consisting of about seven pairs—I expressed a desire to see the young Pochards. The keeper said there were little lots of them in several places, and that one in particular used a small pool called the "little black pool" at the extreme end of the pond. We paddled slowly up through the winding rush-bordered lanes of water connecting the ponds, through the "big black pool," much loved by the Pochards in winter for its abundance of weed. Here it was that some years ago above eighty of these birds were killed by the discharge of two punt-guns, one fired at them on the water, the other just as they were getting on wing—the best chance for killing this sort of bird, as their feathers are then more open, and they give plenty of time while "skittering" before they can get their plump bodies well into the air. At the end of the
