THE BUZZARD 17 



of russet brown showed where last season's 

 dead bracken lay. Small winding streaks 

 seemed to be all over the hills, and these 

 were the well-trodden pathways of moun- 

 tain sheep. Now and again, the loud 

 "mew" of a Buzzard was heard above 

 the music of the waters, and the harsh 

 krraak, krraak of the Raven, both wild 

 cries, and so much in harmony with their 

 surroundings. In this vast open view 

 before me, not a tree or bush could be 

 seen, but as we travelled on, following a 

 mountain stream until it became a river, 

 trees became numerous, and large forests 

 covered the hill-sides, but we still saw or 

 heard the cries of Buzzards as we went 

 near to the spots which they had chosen 

 for their nests. All kinds of scenery we 

 passed through, from the peat-covered 

 hills, rugged and bare, and broken up by 

 the action of water into a hundred deep 

 ditches passing and recrossing each other, 

 in a puzzling maze, to the lower meadows 



