His Native Heath. 161 



Some sound at last disturbs it from its rest. It 

 flutters up the shaft. A comrade, hitherto unseen, 

 disturbed by the sound of passing wings, flies out 

 from higher up, and with a chorus of excited cries they 

 gain the open hill. 



They are gone. It is but a brief glimpse that we 

 have had of them. We might easily have ' secured a 

 splendid specimen.' 



Better the memory of the twilight in the hills ; the 

 well-remembered picture of the sleeping birds, the 

 sound of its unfamiliar voice, and the rush of its 

 vanishing wings, than the possession of its skin mounted 

 by the most dexterous hand — all the grace gone out 

 of it. No more of the free life of the hills ; no more 

 triumphant flights across those seas of purple heather. 

 Nothing but to stand for ever behind the glass of an 

 ugly bird-case in the den of a musty naturalist. 



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