shot bursts
into the surrounding blackness. What is left of the day rushes past. A
long flight of ducks flies by, low, as if looking for somewhere to
land; but suddenly, catching sight of the cabin where the fire is lit,
they take fright. The one at the head rises, and the rest follow as
they fly away screaming.

Soon afterwards, a great shuffling sound, something like rain falling,
approaches. Thousands of sheep, brought back by the shepherds and urged
on by the dogs, are anxiously and haphazardly and breathlessly
scurrying about towards the folds. I am overrun by them and they barge
into me as I am caught up in a maelstrom of woollen curls, and
bleating. It was an ocean swell of sheep that seems to carry away the
shepherds on leaping waves of wool.... Behind the flock, friendly
footsteps and joyful voices are heard. The shack fills up, and becomes
lively, and boisterous. The kindling blazes on the fire. The more tired
they are; the more they laugh. It is a dizzy, happy fatigue, their
rifles stacked in a corner, long boots strewn about, and game bags
emptied into a bloodied heap of red, golden, green, and silver plumage.
In the smoke, the table is set out with a good eel soup. Silence falls;
the huge silence of robust appetites; only broken by the ferocious
growling of the dogs as they scuffle to sample their bowls by the
door....

The evening will soon end. By now, there is only the keeper and I in
front of the flickering fire. We chat desultorily, occasionally
throwing half-words at each other, peasant-like, with Red Indian style
grunts, which fizzle out like the last sparks of the dying fire.
Eventually, the keeper stands up, lights his lantern, and I hear his
heavy footsteps fade into the night....

III

_THE WISH-AND-WAIT!_

The _wish-and-wait!_, what an appropriate name for the lookout, the
expectancy of the hunter lying in wait, and the uncertainty of hours of
total concentration, waiting and wishing between day and night. The
morning lookout is just before sunrise. There is a lookout posted from
evening until twilight, which is the one I prefer, especially in this
marshland where the swamp water sustains the daylight for so long....

Sometimes the lookout takes place in a tiny, punt, a narrow, keelless
boat, which rolls at the drop of a hat. Hidden to peak of his cap by
the reeds, the hunter, lying on the bottom of the boat, keeps an eye
out for ducks. The gun barrel and the dog's head sniff the ai