26 By Leafy Ways. 



How often, from the noble beech woods that rise 

 steeply from the shore, has he listened to the crow of 

 the pheasant, and the coo of the ringdove ! 



How many a time has there sounded in his ears, 

 above the murmur of the river, the sudden cry of a 

 dipper, from his station on a boulder out in mid- 

 stream, his white breast standing clearly out against 

 the moss-covered stone, over its double in the water 

 below it ! 



The dipper is a conspicuous figure on these moun- 

 tain streams. His dark coat, and snowy gorget, his 

 loud clear cry, his musical song, his straight and 

 rapid flight, are as familiar to the fisherman as the very 

 leap of a trout. His whole life is passed on the river. 

 In its waters he finds his food ; on its banks he makes 

 his home. 



The dipper, like the wren, builds a domed nest, with 

 a scarcely visible entrance at the side, and vies with 

 that clever little architect in the cunning devices with 

 which it hides its habitation. 



Here, in a hollow in the bank, skilfully concealed 

 among the roots of a pollard, it is faced with a few 

 dead leaves. Now, behind a cascade of water, it is a 

 pile of green moss, a foot or more in diameter, that 

 looks as if it had grown there quite naturally. 



On a little grass within sometimes almost the only 

 dry part of tie fabric are laid the seven beautiful 

 white eggs. 



Against the low cliff that skirts the creek over 



