BIRDS OF THE FIELD 259 



descends laboriously as through the branches of a 

 tree, to the red clover which is growing beneath. 



Hidden, too, in the deeps is the tiny harvest 

 mouse, least of the British quadrupeds, six of which 

 are required to weigh down one ordinary mouse, 

 and which for so many years evaded the notice of 

 naturalists. Near the top of the stouter stems the 

 nest, like a miniature cricket ball, is woven, and 

 the young are born in a cradle which never ceases 

 to be swayed by every breath of wind. 



In the mowing-grass, too, many birds find a 

 refuge and a safe hiding-place for their nests. As 

 one watches, a Skylark may be seen flying swiftly, 

 bearing food in its bill. The surface of the field 

 appears so bare of landmarks that it seems impos- 

 sible it should find its way with certainty to the spot 

 where the nest lies. But no man can observe wild 

 creatures with any degree of care without being 

 forced to the conclusion that certain of our own 

 senses are either rudimentary or in a far state of 

 degeneracy, when compared with those of many of 

 the lower animals. Man's sense of smell, for 

 example, is so feeble a thing that only the strongest 

 and most nearly placed odours affect it at all. To 

 the otter or the fox, it is a channel through which 

 information the most varied and obscure, reaches 

 the brain. The red deer on the hill becomes per- 

 fectly aware of the approach of the stalker when 

 the man himself is still climbing the corrie a mile 

 away. The setter is seen to be intoxicated by the 

 presence of grouse when to the dull human sense 

 no sign of living thing can be detected in the heather 

 spreading for leagues around. These facts suggest 



