At the Bend of the River. 81 



where forests of young bracken light the long sweeps 

 of sad-coloured hills. 



In the distance are the roofless buildings of a de- 

 serted mine. Everywhere in this great hollow the 

 ground is rough and broken in the search for ore — 

 turned and re-turned by the miners of two thousand 

 years. 



Now over all is a silence as of the grave. No sign 

 of life is there, except a party of lapwings that wheel 

 and tumble in the air after the manner of their kind, 

 and cry now and then in plaintive tone. 



Some on the ground take wing as you draw near ; 

 but two remain, until you can see their long curved 

 crests and the green and chestnut markings of their 

 glossy plumage. Then they too rise, and sail reluct- 

 antly away. 



As you stand a moment to watch their flight across 

 the sky you suddenly become aware of a tiny moving 

 figure hurrying up the slope after the old birds. A 

 young peewit, no doubt. It stops. You note the 

 place with care, and walk straight up to the spot; 

 when, lo ! there is no bird to be seen. Some clods of 

 earth, indeed, but the young peewit has vanished alto- 

 gether. 



But as you look closer at the clods of earth some- 

 thing in their shape attracts your notice, and you see, 

 not one alone, but two young lapwings crouching flat 

 n the short grass at your very feet. 



Take one up in your hand. An odd little object he 



6 



