THE MEADOWS IN WINTER. 117 
a district for themselves, and it is by new arrivals that the places of the 
slain birds are, in a suitable neighbourhood, so regularly filled. 
Next, one’s attention is attracted by the incessant and ubiquitous chirping 
of a family party of Long-tailed Tits, as, tempted forth by the mild atmo- 
sphere and the sunshine, they flit along the hedges beside the streams on 
their way to some favourite copse or fir-wood. Here they are always to be 
found when the weather becomes more severe. A rarer and more welcome 
sight would be a small flock of Siskins, and these, if seen at all, will be 
hanging like Tits in every conceivable attitude from the boughs of an alder. 
I once met a single Siskin not far from St. Cross, and made an effort to 
get it with a walking-stick gun, but the barrel was so corroded with rust 
that the shot positively failed to get through it, and the bird escaped. Lesser 
Redpolls often accompany the Siskins, and resemble them much in habits 
and general appearance; their song is, however, weak and monotonous, and 
they have few qualities to recommend them beyond their cheerfulness. When 
the sun is behind them, and you cannot see the colours, Siskins and Redpolls 
may always be distinguished from Tits by their forked tails, which are 
noticeable even at the top of fair-sized trees. 
Little more will be seen to-day, unless it be the fleeting form of a Haw- 
finch, or perhaps a Moorhen as she disappears into a clump of reeds, or the 
saucy little Dabchick, which seems to positively revel in the icy waters. 
And now the scurrying clouds and the biting blast of the north-easter 
foretell the approaching storm, and you wake on the morrow to find the 
ground covered with a sheet of snow. Let us wait a few days until the change 
has had time to tell upon the birds, and then sally forth once more. The first 
to attract us are the Peewits; they are present in numbers, driven down from 
the upland fields to the marshy dips, where the water has thawed the snow, 
and left bare a scanty feeding-ground. Some are foraging singly, and, wary 
as ever, seldom allow a near approach; but others are flying backwards and 
forwards, as if uncertain whether it would not be better policy, after all, to 
migrate at once to the unfrozen oozes of the sea-shore. These latter afford 
many a shot to the patient gunner who lurks hidden in the centre hedge. 
Sometimes, too, a small party of Golden Plover appears upon the scene, 
following the main river on its way to the sea. They may be recognized by 
their brownish appearance, peaked wings, swift flight, and their way of 
keeping the head close to the shoulders. One rarely sees much of them, 
for, unlike the Peewit, they go steadily on in one direction, never staying 
long in any particular meadow. 
But what is this curious dark little creature that has just fluttered up 
