274 HILL BIRDS OF SCOTLAND 



is within sight of the great hills which harbour in their 

 corries fields of eternal snow. 



On June 9th I visited the family of the Crested Tits 

 for the last time. For some days wild weather had been 

 experienced in the glen, and on the high hills snow had 

 been driven fast before a biting nor'-easter. On peering 

 into the nesting hollow I saw that the youngsters were 

 full fledged — to my knowledge they were fourteen days 

 old — and one, standing on his fellows, seemed to be de- 

 bating a sortie into the outer world. Soon the hen bird 

 appeared, with her mouth crammed full of food for the 

 small people who were expectantly awaiting her arrival, 

 and now I looked for the coming of the cock — the small 

 and courageous husband who used to stand on the tree 

 a few feet from me and curse me roundly for daring to 

 disturb the peace of his home. But of him there was 

 no sign. At times, indeed, the hen went off for a few 

 moments as though to find him and to seek his support, 

 but she returned alone after each search. Suddenly her 

 soft scolding notes ceased abruptly, and looking skywards 

 I saw a Kestrel soaring in circles at a great height. His 

 keen eye was searching the wood, and he appeared to be 

 quite heedless of my presence. More than likely he had, 

 on a previous visit, snatched away the small father of 

 the family. It seemed to me as I watched that there was 

 a certain pathetic air of expectancy about the survivor. 

 She seemed to be waiting for her mate, and to be at a loss 

 to know what had happened to him — a tragedy which 

 might touch many a heart. And yet in Nature such 

 tragedies are of daily, hourly occurrence. 



To us, possessing as we do a consciousness and a memory 

 retentive of sorrow, it almost appears that Nature is 

 without compassion, merciless. And yet if we ponder 

 the matter it will appear to us in a different light. Though 

 Death is everywhere showing his hand in the universe, 



