WILDFOWLING has never been one of my pas- times, although
when I was fonder of taking a
gun with me I used to shoot wild duck on
occasions. 1 suppose half a dozen times in my life 1 have shot curlew—the poor man's grouse, as they are called. The curlew is a bird that haunts the tideline and the estuary, cries over the moor and has something sad and forlorn in its complaint. 1 believe even its sad cry was advanced as something of a reason for putting the curlew on the protected list, and I was amused at this because as a child I was always told that the curlew was an accursed bird. In the bloody days of the Covenant its cry betrayed many a good man taking refuge on the moor while the dragoons were storming through the villages. Shoot the curlew when you can, I was told, but it was much easier said than done, for a curlew is almost as wary as a goose. I did not shoot so many. In favour of the curlew are those who claim that it devours a great number of snails that carry the liver fluke. I have never heard anything against the bir' save the legend passed on by my grandpa• Sits. I half hoped curlews would be protected and yet I cannot say exactly why. I hardly think they would ever be in danger of extermination. They have always been plentiful, wary, and never so welcome in the kitchen as a nice fat widgeon.
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