CHAPTER I 



THE BUZZARD 

 THE BUZZARD'S HOME 



years ago last March, I 

 -^ first looked upon the wild hills of 

 Wales, and saw the Buzzard in its home. 

 The grey dawn of a cold morning was 

 giving place to the more cheerful light of 

 sunrise. The outlines of the mountains 

 were sharp and clear against the sky, 

 covered as it was with quickly drifting 

 clouds, which as they passed the east were 

 changed to red, and then to a deeper 

 crimson, and again to gold as the sun 

 came up between two great hills. I could 

 not, if I tried, forget that first meeting 

 with the hills, and now although twelve 

 years have passed I love them more than 



