From the high ground above the hamlet, where we halted a moment to take breath, we overlooked a scene which resembled a rude cast in white of the familiar countryside. Many landmarks were disguised beyond recognition, and the waters of Mount’s Bay, generally like a liquid gem of the deepest blue, looked dull as lead. The newly-risen sun loomed big through the frost-fog which its rays could not penetrate, and a man with weak eyes might have stared at the dull crimson orb without blinking. In the hollow immediately below us, an old labourer, with a big faggot of furze on his back, was staggering across a yard, his feet sinking at every step deeper and deeper into the snow, as he made for the closed door of the farmhouse against which it had drifted. It must be admitted that the snowfall, heavy as it was, could not be compared to the great blizzard of later years, which blocked the railway, isolated the dwellers in the country, and but for his knowledge of the position of a starveling tree on the edge of a quarry, would probably have cost the Earthstopper his life. Nevertheless, wildfowl were quite as abundant; and as the Looe Pool, Marazion Marsh, and other resorts became frozen over, they had to shift their quarters, and ultimately to settle on the sea.
St Michael’s Mount. [Face page 194.
More than one skein of duck had passed high overhead since daybreak, flying westward, but none so big as the great flock of widgeon which we saw, some four gunshots above us, as we were turning into the marshy moor near Tremayne plantation, where our sport was to begin. This piece of undrained ground was, may be is, shaped like a triangle. Tussocks of rushes just showed above the snow, and a runnel, winding in and out among them, ran chattering between a double frill of ice. We had not advanced many steps before a snipe rose, to fall to the first barrel, and soon after a wisp got up out of range, and flew away in the direction of the Big Downs. Following the running water, we approached the corner, where rushes gave place to a brambly thicket, between which and the stone walls behind grew a few gnarled holly-bushes. The spaniels were hardly in this cover before they flushed a woodcock. Bang! bang! and the bird fell on our side of the wall. The smoke had not cleared when another rose from the other side, where a few withes skirted the runnel. It afforded the easiest of shots; but, alas! both barrels were empty, and the reloading of a muzzle-loader takes time. We crouched, hoping the bird might settle in an adjoining marsh, but it kept on in the direction of Trannack Hill till it became a mere speck in the leaden sky, and at last was lost to view.
Separated from the three-cornered moor by two or three rough fields is a stennack—an excavation made by the “old men” in mining for tin—in length a good stone’s throw, and some thirty yards across. The bed of it lies from twelve to twenty feet below the level of the field that circles it, so that the biting wind swept over the white coverlet that concealed the close thicket of furze, blackthorn, and bramble that grew there. Standing on the edge of the bank, we could follow the movements of the dogs by the snow which fell here and there from the bushes. Presently a woodcock rose silently a few yards in front of them on the far side, and fell to the shot, dropping behind a thorn-bush on the opposite bank. Shortly after, another got up but was missed, and then for a time there was a lull in the sport. Not that the excitement flagged, for the spaniels were giving tongue, and as they drew near the zigzagging bank on which we stood a rabbit bolted on our right; then, strange to say, a fox made off, stealing away with that lissom movement that only a wild creature is endowed with, his ruddy coat showing finely against the white background. Near the farther end of the stennack three teal were flushed. They were up and away in no time, affording a pretty right and left. Two dropped in the thicket, and it was some time before we succeeded in finding them. It may seem hard to understand that the stennack was a haunt for wildfowl, but so it was. There was no pool of water there, no spring, as far as I could see; and a small cave at the foot of the high bank was dry, for, boylike, I peeped in over the drift that half-filled its mouth.
Leaving the field, we made for Trevean farmhouse. The snow in the unfrequented lane that we followed was unmarked by any footprint except the track of a hare. Soon we could smell the reek of burning furze, and as we came in sight of the high stone chimney, we heard the mooing of the cattle that had been driven in from the wild moors around. Two colts, with rugged coats and steaming nostrils, whose heads projected over the half-door of the stable, welcomed us with a neigh, as we crossed the rickyard and entered the house. A fire blazed on the hearth; but of the interior I can recall clearly but one object, an old woman wearing a small red shawl, seated in a high-backed chair at the end of the table, with a big book open before her. It was the indescribable calm on her face that I shall never forget. That is what I see first as the scene passes before my eyes, then the muslin cap she wore, and last, though its hue was so bright, her red turnover. A sheep-dog was stretched at full length on the stone floor, his nose, that lay between his tan-coloured paws, nearly touching the little wooden footstool on which the aged woman’s feet rested; but this part of the picture is faded. My friend chatted with her so long about some great frost of years before that I thought he must have forgotten all about the woodcock. At length we left the farm kitchen and set out for the wild waste-land, the farmer going with us. The good sport we subsequently met with in Billy Hal’s moor tempts me to tell the reader at once what happened there, but I will first touch briefly on the most striking incidents in the wide round we took over the country on the hither side of it.
Scarcely a croft but held its woodcock: hardly a runnel from which a snipe did not rise. In the bottom under Penhale fox-brake, a woodcock rose out of some brambles growing inside the ruined walls of a roofless cottage, and a little further down, where a leat runs into the New Bridge stream—that looked amid the snow like a black ribbon lying on a bed of goose-down—a mallard was shot, and a startled heron was allowed to flap itself away unmolested. Shortly after this, the sun for a brief space broke through the clouds and turned the dull white scene into a glittering fairyland. Near Boswortha Cairn—oh, how piercing was the icy wind there—both barrels were discharged at a passing flock of golden plover, and on the far side of the rocks the farmer, humouring my curiosity, led me to see a set of badgers’ earths. Three of the holes were blocked, and not a track was to be seen in front of the one that remained open. As we hurried to rejoin our little party, the farmer dropped up to his ears in a pit, his black beard lying flat on the snow. His hearty laugh rang out; but my friend, who was some thirty yards below us, did not turn his head—in fact, did not, as he afterwards said, hear any sound. I mention this to show how strong the wind was, though another fact probably contributed to the result—my friend and his old henchman were approaching Billy Hal’s moor.