The Land of the Hills and the Glens 



of the Atlantic on a small cliff. The bell heather was bursting 

 into bloom as I crossed the moor, and many orchids grew on 

 the boggy ground. The midsummer sun shone hot and 

 clear, and the broad Atlantic lay unruffled in the sunlight, 

 but with a long, oily swell breaking against the rocks. 

 Twites with their full-grown young rose from the heather, 

 and wheatears called excitedly from the stony ground, where 

 their broods had concealed themselves. From the crest of 

 a small hill sloping down to the sea one could look down 

 upon the nest and see the buzzard standing, on guard over 

 her young, with the strong sunlight striking upon her. Nor 

 did she make any attempt to rise until I had approached 

 nearer, when she flew off mewing and was soon joined 

 by her mate. And this is a well-marked difference between 

 the buzzard and the eagle, namely, that the buzzard almost 

 always cries when she is disturbed from her nest, whereas 

 the eagle leaves her eyrie in silence. Both birds have the 

 same heavy, almost clumsy, flight when leaving their nests, 

 becoming graceful only when they have reached a con- 

 siderable height, when they can display their fine soaring 

 powers. 



Like those of the eagle, the buzzard's young are, when 

 first hatched, clad in down of a greyish white. They are 

 not quite so long in arriving at maturity as the eaglets, 

 but in all respects closely resemble the latter. 



After the nesting season is over and the young are able 

 to fly, the family of buzzards, accompanied by their parents, 

 range far over the hills and rough moorland country. Still, 

 sunny days they love, days when the air is warm and clear, 

 and when they can soar quietly above the hillsides, all 

 the time uttering their querulous cry. To the attacks of 

 other birds they pay no heed, nor do they ever attempt 

 to escape from their assailants. 



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