452 BRITISH BIRDS. 
almost picturesque from excess of gloom. You seem to be lookiug upon 
a forest of chimney-studded roofs, hazy and indistinct, and soon lost in the 
thick smoke which hangs like a great black rain-cloud over the sky, whilst 
here and there, where the engine-chimneys are thickest, the steam hangs 
about them like the “ sobs” of mist that rise out of the Wharncliffe woods 
and hang about the loftiest trees, looking white against the grey rain. 
Underneath this heaven of smoke, somewhere at the bottom of this valley 
of chimneys, flows the dirty, sullen, ill-used river Don, groaning under 
the weight of his labour, monotonously turning his hundred wheels and 
tilts day and night, and patiently bearing his burden of blackness. In 
the early part of this century the Don was a gay, laughing stream, purling 
amongst mossy stones or dropping into dark pools full of trout. Now it 
is a barren river, muddied by drains and sewers, poisoned by divers acids, 
redolent of unwholesome gases, and stained with the hideous yellow of 
“ wheelswarfe.”’ About six miles out of the town it nestles close under the 
Wharncliffe woods ; and about a mile further on, at its junction with the 
Yewden, the sturdy oaks almost hide the rocky bed of the stream from 
sight. From the top of the crags at Wharncliffe you look down upon one 
of the finest landscapes in Yorkshire. Its most marked feature is the 
Wharn cliffs (Danish Vernelippe), or bulwark cliffs, which run like a 
rampart on the hill-sides. Beyond these rampart cliffs is the majestic 
sea of wood, with its roll of forest wave, almost rivalling the ocean in 
sublimity. In the distance, to the right, the river winds through the 
Stocksbridge valley, past the large works of Samuel Fox, parasol- and 
umbrella-frame maker to the two hemispheres ; and to the left the valley 
of the Yewden (Yew-den or Yew-dale, the dale or valley of yew-trees) lies 
spread out like a map, leading up to the Bradfield moors. All this 
district, from the moor-edges, where Grouse are breeding, down to the 
last cottage-garden, which looks like an oasis of green in the desert of 
shops, abounds with Willow- Wrens. 
Early in April they arrive by thousands, and spread themselves over 
this and surrounding districts. First the males arrive, hungry and silent ; 
and you may watch them on.the pines and larches diligently seeking for 
insects, never still for a moment, searching every nook and cranny, as 
often hanging under a leaf or twig as perched upon it. Wonderfully active, 
they are to be seen in almost every conceivable position; and not unfre- 
quently they make a short flight into the air to catch an insect on the 
wing, or hover over a leaf or under a pine-cone to pick off some beetle or 
fly which they could not otherwise reach. A day or two after their arrival 
they commence their simple little song; and during the pairing-season 
their half-dozen unassuming notes in a descending scale, like a little peal 
of distant bells, resound from every tree. In early spring these birds 
have a sibilant chirp, which sometimes approaches almost a hiss, like the 
