9IO Hoffmann, Summer Birds of the Rhine. |_Oct 



terity of a thief, which no doubt he is. Finally I got a good view 

 of one, — the white rump, as he flew, the rich brown of the back, 

 and the fine steel blue patch on the wing, so much in demand for 

 artificial flies. In these groves, too, the Turtle Doves took refuge, 

 when I frightened them from the grain fields. Their rounded tails 

 are tipped with white, as in our species. 



Beyond the grainfields, I often came to picturesque villages, the 

 tiles of the houses slate-gray and the sides and ends covered with 

 laths crossed in the plaster. 



After walking for some time, through the fields, in the direction 

 of the Lorelei-rock which overhung the Rhine on my right, I 

 heard the sound of water below me to the left. I passed through 

 a belt of pines and climbed clown the loose, shingly side of a steep 

 hill, crossed two broad chaussees and after a steep descent found 

 myself in a narrow wooded valley. A noisy brook ran over the 

 stones under arching trees, among which a Bulfinch showed for 

 a moment. Wood oxalis grew in the clamp moss, and ferns 

 and brambles formed a dense tangle. I descended the valley, 

 which broadened from time to time to a strip of meadow, and 

 at last a house appeared with a sluice and a mill wheel. The 

 sides of the valley were steep and clothed with pine. The brook 

 and the neighboring road wound continually, sometimes passing 

 directly under jutting rocks ; now and then I came to gray-tiled 

 houses, each with a wheel to which the noisy waters could be 

 bound. The Rhine with its steamers and long lines of heavy 

 barges, seemed far away and when I found that this little valley 

 was the " Schweizer Thai," I thought the name most apposite. 



Blackcaps sang in the willows, a Hedge Sparrow scratched 

 under the bushes that lined the stream, and from far up on the 

 hillside came the wild whistle of the Blackbird. When I revisited 

 this mountain glen (for so it seemed) in August, I found two 

 interesting birds which I had not seen on my former walk, but 

 which no doubt were regular residents. One was the Mountain 

 Wagtail, who was leading his young over wet stones which blocked 

 the brook, and the other was a Water Ouzel or Dipper. This 

 strange bird, a Thrush who yet dives, swims and lives on fish, was 

 standing near a mill wheel, up to his reddish belly in the foaming 

 water. When he saw me, he flew swiftly along the stream, and 

 disappeared under the arch of a small bridge. 



