106 MUTTON BIRDS 



was miserably cold, a stinging thin rain, just not 

 sufficient to lay the sand, was falling, and the 

 grey sky almost rested on the beach and hid the 

 hills to their knees. Yet that little bird to me 

 had redeemed the day and warmed the whole 

 wild beach. She had braved me in her love and 

 forgotten me perhaps in its practice; indeed I 

 felt shame in watching her with the chick. 

 There should never have been an inquisitive 

 third to pry upon the scene. It was a lover's 

 modest intimacies with his lass or the mother's 

 tender happiness when, alone, she loosens her 

 gown to suckle her babe. 



When, after a considerable time, I stirred, the 

 Dotterel hen moved off, running just in front of 

 the chick, now fit and strong again and able to 

 endure the buffeting of the storm. 



Next morning we re-visited the flat beneath 

 the granite hill, and again noted the two pair 

 of Dotterel. Each couple was, as on the previous 

 day, somewhere about the same spot; as 

 before, too, each pair simulated uneasiness, 

 though not to a marked degree. I worked the 

 supposed nesting site of one pair, McLean the 

 other: but neither of us was successful. We 

 then proceeded towards our goal by brute force 

 and sheer weight of metal. Nice observation 

 was impossible. The footmarks of the little 

 birds were imperceptible on the hard surface, 

 and were, on the dry sand, everywhere adrift and 

 instantly drying between the showers, in a few 

 seconds obliterated. There were none of those 

 little signs that lead gradually to discovery and 

 make birdnesting so fascinating a pastime. 

 Although large tracts were, in our opinion, 

 impossible for nesting purposes, we strode over 



