158 Idylls of the Field. 



At a sudden turn in the path a great bird rises from 

 the side of the road, and, spreading wide his mighty 

 wings, drifts leisurely down to the wall under the 

 encampment. It is a buzzard, a bird tamer than 

 many of his fierce race, perhaps because his solitude 

 is seldom broken. And now he lingers until we can 

 see the markings on his rich brown coat. Then at 

 last he rises once more, and we lose sight of him 

 among the trees. 



Yonder is another that, floating on motionless wings 

 with every variety of graceful curve, soars in ever- 

 widening circles along the mountain-side until it gains 

 the summit, and disappears over the crest of the hill. 



As he passes the grey wall of cliff, whose shattered 

 buttresses break the round swell of the valley, a 

 clamorous party of dark birds emerge from their 

 hiding-places in the rocks. They are choughs. There 

 is little to identify them with certainty at such a dis- 

 tance; but although their flight suggests that of the 

 rook, they are lighter in build, and their clear, emphatic 

 cries of * Kae, kaej are quite unlike the voices of any 

 others of their race. They settle down in their rocky 

 haunts again, and are seen no more. 



The path has reached the top of the slope, and we 

 stand on the brink of a mighty hollow in the moun- 

 tains. 



It is a wild spot. The ground has been torn up as 

 by a waterspout. Piles of shingle and boulders alter- 

 nate with yawning hollows made in search of ore. 



