BIRDS IN A VILLAGE 33 



number of stuffed kingfishers under glass shades 

 that one sees in houses of all descriptions, in town 

 and country, but most frequently in the parlours 

 of country cottages and inns, tell a melancholy 

 story. Some time ago a young man showed me 

 three stuffed kingfishers in a case, and informeci 

 me that he had shot them at a place (which he 

 named) quite close to London. He said that 

 these three birds were the last of their kind ever 

 seen there; that he had gone, week after week 

 and watched and waited, until one by one, at 

 long intervals, he had secured them all; and that 

 two years had passed since the last one was 

 killed, and no other kingfisher had been seen at 

 the place. He added that the waterside which 

 these birds had frequented was resorted to by 

 crowds of London working people on Saturday 

 afternoons, Sundays and other holidays; the 

 fact that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pairs 

 of tired eyes would have been freshened and glad- 

 dened by the sight of their rare gem-like beauty 

 only made him prouder of his achievement. This 

 young man was a cockney of the small shop-keep- 

 ing class — a Philistine of the Philistines — hence 

 there was no call to feel surprise at his self-glori- 



