A WEEK IN THE HILLS 15 



be laid. Indeed, we examine several fresh scratchings 

 during the afternoon, but none contain eggs. 



However, 'tis time to be moving, so we wend our 

 way as best we can along the treacherous cliffside, 

 now bathed in the fading glory of the afternoon sun, 

 enlivened by the cheery and wild song of the Ring 

 Ouzel as he sits on yonder stunted mountain-ash, 

 inviting inspection as it were. Close at hand we find 

 his mate, who has already begun to "set" on her 

 four eggs, so strangely like those of the Blackbird in 

 general colouring, though perhaps a trifle brighter. 

 The nest, too, is almost a facsimile of the last-named 

 species, but the white gorget on the Ring Ouzel's 

 breast is sure proof enough, and this is very con- 

 spicuous as both cock and hen bird dash wildly past 

 us, uttering their " tac-tac-tac " of alarm as we inspect 

 their brown-spotted treasures. 



Further on still we find a Raven's nest, accessible 

 only from above, which has unfortunately been 

 robbed by some fellow or other when it contains 

 eggs (the keeper knew of it when it contained three), 

 and we fear that the birds will not attempt to rear a 

 brood this season — though we see a Raven pass over 

 the glen at a great height, a sepulchral croak first 

 giving us intimation of his approach. 



Before leaving these charming Welsh hills let us 

 visit one more Buzzard's eyrie, this time containing 

 eggs highly incubated. 



Here in a rugged gorge is the nest, built far up the 

 cliffside, behind a friendly furze-bush, and similar in 

 all respects to the one first described in these pages, 

 only lined with tufts of mountain grass instead of the 



