58 A BIRD COLLECTOR’S MEDLEY. 
In size and shape they resemble Robins more than Redstarts, and they 
have a darker look than the Redstart as they fly. Few would imagine 
from seeing an old bird on the wing how beautiful they are in the hand. 
Most of those shot have only a blue gorget, and the shade of blue varies, 
sometimes having a mauve tint in it, and at others being brighter and more 
metallic. I once shot one with blue moustaches as well as a splendid breast, 
and another that came under my notice had a blue throat into the bargain. 
The capture of a rarity is almost always followed by a general, if 
somewhat illogical, invasion of the bushes on the succeeding day. All the 
local gunners turn out for the occasion, and ill indeed does it fare with 
any unfortunate Warblers that may happen to be harbouring there at the 
time. Numerous Redstarts fall victims to those who are in pursuit of the 
Bluethroat, and many Willow-Wrens pay the penalty of greatness in being 
so closely allied to the much prized Icterine. 
But perhaps the bird that it is most easy to mistake for a good one 
is, curiously enough, the Robin! It seems absurd at first sight, but the 
fact is a Robin in the bushes on migration is a very different creature 
to the familiar inhabitant of our gardens, and at times it is most 
difficult to identify it. You don’t see the red on the breast at all, and 
what you think you see is a strange dark Warbler with a flight that 
may mean anything. I never feel in the least surprised when anyone tells 
me that he has shot a Robin by mistake. 
I remember, the day after the killing of an Aquatic, meeting two 
fisher boys returning from a raid. One of them carried a sack, and 
from the depths of this receptacle they retrieved at length two birds 
which they asked me to identify. They proved to be a Whinchat and a 
Titlark, but sometimes it is the other way altogether. A shooter came 
into the local naturalist’s one evening with half a dozen shore birds to 
have them examined. The best was a Knot, and he was retiring with 
evident disappointment. 
“Sure you have nothing else, sir?”’ said the Professor, whose experience 
of beginners was a lengthy one. 
“Well, only some sort of a Shrike in my pocket,” replied the sports- 
man, and out he fished, to the general amazement, a Barred Warbler! 
The supposition, however, was not so wide of the mark as one might suppose, 
for Dr. Power told me that when he shot his, it did sit up and behave itself 
very much after the manner of a Shrike. Still, the bird here referred to 
was shot while skulking during a short squall, which very probably brought 
it down to its doom. 
