OF THE MARSH 195 



note in the old spot. "Tu-lip!" one of the birds 

 called upon sighting me in the distance; "tu-lip!" 

 came the answer of a second bird, and I caught the 

 glint of white underwings as it wheeled across the 

 mudbank to join its comrade. 



The Ringed Plover is a companionable bird. 

 There are birds which admit no sort of intimacy, 

 and a Snipe, rocketing up from before one's feet, 

 and jagging out a sort of fork-lightning pattern in 

 the air as it darts from earth to sky, suggests a 

 degree of familiarity with man and his ways more 

 intimate than cordial. But the Ringed Plover, 

 especially in autumn and when in small numbers, 

 gives man credit for less barbarous intentions, with 

 the result that it oftener receives the charge of a 

 double-barrel into its small body. Yet, dead and 

 dangling, what is a Ringed Plover as compared with 

 the rotund little personage that faces that other 

 double-barrel the binocular character and action 

 in every line of him? Brown above and white below, 

 with orange bill and legs, and a system of black 

 straps across his brow, face and throat, separated by 

 as many bold bands of white, he is at once one of 

 the most simply marked and one of the most elegant 

 of the plovers. How like a Lapwing's are his move- 

 ments as he tacks hither and thither with a quick, 

 running gait, stopping to observe you now from one 

 eye, now from the other, and nervously snapping up 

 invisible particles, perhaps imaginary ones, from the 

 ground. But he has one action which may be called 

 his own. He has the habit of running up to 

 you, putting his head down, and looking up at you 

 intently with both dark eyes at once, whilst bowing 



