206 THE PLOUGHING 



wing, wheeled round in the usual Ringed Plover 

 fashion, and as I had retired slightly in the mean- 

 while, came to earth again upon its little beach. It 

 liked that little beach. Lapped by the water as the 

 breeze played over it, it was like the sand or mud 

 flats over which the bird was wont to run with 

 nimble gait by loch-side or sea, I hope that birds 

 have no remembrance of things past; " loch-side" 

 and "sea" had else been memories to break the 

 heart of it. Now its running days were over. As 

 it alighted, it half sank, half pitched forward on its 

 breast, and resumed the sitting posture in which I at 

 first found it. 



In all probability it had dropped out from some 

 passing migratory band, attracted by the water, the 

 surface of which even in the darkest nights is never 

 dark. One of our gunning gentry had accomplished 

 the rest. 



Maimed, and stranded here between the old haunt 

 it has left and the far land whither some irresistible 

 impulse urges it, it recalls other " one-leggers " I wot 

 of, as the bells of the surrounding villages summon 

 the good folk to their pews. Some vaunt the leg 

 material, and some the leg spiritual, each having its 

 high-hoppers, veritable centipedes for assurance. 



I have never seen a living Ringed Plover so near, 

 and so I seat myself on a low mud mound the 

 Sandpiper's old look-out, and keep it company in a 

 way. 



Should the time ever come when man, the terror 

 of creation, recognises with late regret the hosts of 

 fear with which he has surrounded himself, and 

 desires to regain the lost confidence of the "little 



