against the bird was probably only begun when anglers became numerous, and anxious that 
ne’er a fish should be lost on their limited waters. But this was before the days when every 
theory calls for proof. Now it is known that the Dipper scarcely harms a fish of sport, but, 
on the contrary, does a vast amount of good. It rids all streams wherein it feeds of those 
insects which, at certain stages of their existence, are, as well as “bullheads,’ most 
destructive to the eggs of salmon and trout. As its usefulness becomes widely known 
the bird may again become common—another English pet, a Robin of the brook, yet safer 
than a Robin, for its nestlings can, at any rate, never be troubled by the modern cat! Along 
one trout stream that I know, the bird has ceased to be molested since its virtues have become 
known, and where it was formerly but a visitor several pairs now live and breed. There 
would be more there were it not for the fact that each pair is jealous of its own boundaries. 
A part of every stream where the birds are found belongs to one pair of them, and they, as 
well as we, have a law of trespass. 
To know the birds as they are, one must go down this allotted part of some hill stream. 
The water rushes, bubbles, and eddies, over and amid stones and moss; where white froth 
and black pools contrast with the colours of the bird they hide. Slowly and stealthily must 
movements be made, not one step further forward until the eye is sure that at the back of the 
stone, or round the corner of the brook coming into view, there is no Dipper. 
That it is being sought in winter matters not. Though icicles and broken tiles of ice make 
chill the banks with little wintry vaults beneath, food is still to be found in troubled water, 
and that is all the bird wants. Such a haunt—shaded, too, by a few fir trees and flecked by 
birches—cannot fail to hold what one is seeking, and, if careful, the search is soon rewarded. 
The bird stands there in its favourite spot, on some small loose stones at the edge of the dark 
pool, with its feet lapped by the ever moving water, and its back anon splashed by the little 
waterfall hard by. It moves little then, for its short legs and curved claws are ill adapted 
for walking, and it has no claim to elegance like its fellow-tenant of the stream, the Grey 
Wagtail. The Dipper’s short tail poised upwards rivals that of the Wren; its stolid form 
partly bowed makes jerky bobs more often than does a Robin’s, and when seen in its straight 
flight it more resembles a ball thrown from the hand, so little are its wings extended. Its 
first morsel of food may be close by, so, merely bobbing more than usual, the Dipper’s head 
and neck are in and out of the stream with a little flop and a splash. But it is a water- 
loving bird, and ere long its next move evades the sight as it flies to the centre of the 
eddying pool, seems to rest for a moment, with its white breast embraced by the snowy 
froth, and then is gone—diving to the bed of the torrent. 
Other birds, such as the Kingfisher and Tern, plunge in from a height; but the 
Dipper flies on to the water, floats there for a moment, and then plunges or sinks in. With 
its body covered with small white bubbles, and slanting down head foremost, it propels itself 
with sharp jerks even against the current, making its powerful wings do duty for its 
unwebbed feet. It flies in the water. Its wings have been seen well stretched out, gallantly 
fighting the rapids, until it reaches the bottom. There its curved claws help it, as it looks 
into crevices and under stones for its food. Presently it comes up at the top of the current, 
seemingly flings itself on to a stone, remains still for a moment, makes a bob, catches sight 
of its visitor, and uttering a weird little shriek darts down the stream. If it is followed, too 
quick are its eyes now not to catch sight of one the moment, it is seen, and again it will have 
to be followed ; probably in constant similar stages to the end of its domains. Then with 
a swift rise into the air, uttering again and again its shrill notes, it flies back high overhead 
whence it came. Those notes, those weird shrieks, more than doubled by the lonely valley, 
are caught up by the enchaining hills, and seem to thrill one with a sense of lurking danger, 
until they cease amid the tiers of firs in the mist. If still pursued it might grant one a 
chance in the wintry twilight of hearing its song—the warbling strain of a bird happy all 
the year round, never tired with its wild life and unchanging source of food. 
Scarcely again, though, will there be such a beautiful sight as that once seen by Mr. Robert 
Gray in Lanarkshire. A wild stream was swollen, and in the centre, where the current was 
slow, floated a detached piece of turf frozen in ice. On this stood a dipper, singing, as dusk 
fell on all around, its evening hymn, thrilling the rugged and sterile surroundings with the 
