WHEATEAR. 



THE STONE CB AT AND WHEATEAR. 



On the wild and trackless moors, where the solitudes 

 are but rarely broken save by the harsh cries of the 

 Plover, Grouse, and Curlew, we find a little bird, in a 

 garb the gayest of the gay, flitting from bush to bush, 

 uttering his monotonous note of zuce chic, wee chic, chic, 

 chic, chic, while his mate in her more sober plumage sits 

 apparently motionless on a tuft of heather hard by ; but 

 if we more closely observe her we find that she is jerking 

 her tail incessantly, and occasionally looking warily 

 around, for these little birds of the moor but seldom see. 



