PREFACE. iii 



vibrate in symphony I The dark waters of Loch Lagan wind 

 among the rugged capes, the bro^vn hills are heaped in massy 

 piles against the unclouded sky, on the sandy point stands the 

 patient heron watching its prey, and from yon bold headland 

 launches forth the long-winged osprey. Beautiful as these ob- 

 jects are, they at this moment interest you less than the melody 

 of the gentle Mavis. When the blast of winter howls in that 

 birch-clad valley, and heaves the billows of tbat now placid 

 lake, the shrill scream of the Erne and the hoarse croak of 

 the prowling Raven, might send a responsive thrill of savage 

 delight through your frame ; but on this lovely summer eve, 

 when the fragrance of the wild woods is wafted to you by the 

 dying breeze, and the sun descends behind Ben Nevis, shoot- 

 ing bands of softened light amid the gathering gloom of the 

 overhanging rocks, no sounds could so harmonize with the 

 scene as the murmur of the rippling brook, and the sweetly 

 modulated tones of the mountain thrush. 



In one of those lovely vales of happy England, where 

 amidst orchards and corn-fields bounded by blossomed haw- 

 thorn and rows of tall elms, gleam cottages decked with roses 

 and honeysuckles, while the spire of the village church shoots 

 high above the beechen grove, who could listen without de- 

 light to the loud and mellow song of the dusky Merle, or the 

 melting melody of the peerless Nightingale. ^\"andering by 

 the still waters of some willow-skirted stream, on whose placid 

 bosom reposes the water-lily, we might gaze on the tiny war- 

 bler that from a top spray pours at intervals its curiously mo- 

 dulated song. See, in that patch of pasture land, skirted by 

 thickets of alder, is a brood of young water-hens accompanied 

 by their anxious mother ; and from the green corn has spruno- 

 on fluttering wings the heaven-seeking lark, from whose shrill 

 and continuously varied warble you catch the spirit of pure 

 cheerfulness by which it seems to be inspired. 



Is there a man so dead to nature that, regardless of the leafy 

 woods, the green fields, the gliding brooks, the rugged rocks, and 

 the wave-washed shores, among which only can one study birds 

 to advantage, he gathers around him the spoils of eA-ery land, 

 arranges them into circles and groups which he imagines to be 



