Originally published in the Manchester Guardian on 2 June 1916
Although we could not see them, shoals of small fish raced seaward on the falling tide, hastening through the shallowing water on the banks; the terns, however, could see them, and, following in a dense, screaming crowd, literally fell upon them. Out of the mass of noisy hovering birds a score or more at a time dived head-long, splashing up the water as they struck. Nearer shore, where the water runs in channels between the rocks and banks, the lesser terns were feeding in smaller numbers, and one amorous male carried his squirming captives to his mate upon the shore. A mob of pied oystercatchers lined the edge of the water, and now and then a whimbrel, with rippling call, flew down to join them.
Where the sand was dry the ringed plovers fed, where still wet the dunlins ran, probing the mud, and wading till the water washed their breasts were a number of short-billed sanderlings. Turnstones, some gay in the black and orange dress of summer, tossed the seaweed strands with their slightly upturned and stout bills; they knew where to find the lurking crab and sand-hopper.
Source: Guardian Environment