The modus operandi is very simply told.  You dress yourself in the most invisible colours, and, armed with a huge duck-gun—­double or single, as you like—­you proceed to your post, which is termed here a “blind.”  It is a kind of box, about four feet high, with three sides and no top; a bench is fixed inside, on which to sit and place your loading gear.  These blinds are fixed in the centre line of the long point, and about fifty yards apart.  One side of the point they call “Bay,” and the other “River.”  The sportsmen look out carefully from side to side, and the moment any ducks are seen in motion, the cry is given “bay” or “river,” according to the side from which they are approaching.  Each sportsman, the moment he “views the ducks,” crouches down in his blind as much out of sight as possible, waiting till they are nearly overhead, then, rising with his murderous weapon, lets drive at them the moment they have passed.  As they usually fly very high, their thick downy coating would turn any shots directed against them, on their approach.  In this way, during a favourable day in the early part of the season, a mixed “file and platoon” firing of glorious coups de roi is kept up incessantly.  We were very unfortunate that evening, as but few ducks were in motion, and those few passed at so great a height, that, although the large A.A. rattled against them from a ponderous Purdey which a friend had lent me, they declined coming down.  I had only succeeded in getting one during my two hours’ watching, when darkness forced me to beat a retreat.

But who shall presume to attempt a description of the luscious birds as they come in by pairs, “hot and hot?” A dozen of the members of the club are assembled; a hearty and hospitable welcome greets the stranger—­a welcome so warm that he cannot feel he is a stranger; every face is radiant with health, every lip moist with appetite; an unmistakeable fragrance reaches the nostrils—­no further summons to the festive scene is needed.  The first and minor act of soup being over, the “smoking pair” come in, and are placed before the president.  In goes the fork;—­gracious! how the juice spouts out.  The dry dish swims; one skilful dash with the knife on each side, the victim is severed in three parts, streaming with richness, and whetting the appetite to absolute greediness.  But there is an old adage which says, “All is not gold that glitters.”  Can this be a deception?  The first piece you put in your mouth, as it melts away on the palate, dissipates the thought, and you unhesitatingly pronounce it the most delicious morsel you ever tasted.  In they come, hot and hot; and, like Oliver, you ask for more, but with better success.  Your host, when he sees you flagging, urges, “one” more cut.  You hesitate, thinking a couple of ducks a very fair allowance.  He replies,—­“’Pon my word, it’s such light food; you can eat a dozen!” A jovial son of Aesculapius, on whom Father Time had set his mark, though he has left his