The Misty Moorland. 93 



the desolate moorland, hear the rush of wind among 

 the heather. 



The bright green of the peat-moss, with that dark 

 fringe of rushes, marks the course of a hidden stream 

 one of the countless channels that vein the bosom 

 of the hills. Here in winter the snipe will lie in 

 scores. It is a place beloved of wild duck, too ; and 

 just now there may be a curlew lingering about the 

 scene of his birth. 



By this time his fellows have gone down to the 

 shore, and are stalking along by the edge of the sea, 

 whose rim is at this moment just visible on the 

 horizon. 



Out on the moor we may find the nest. Not much 

 of a nest indeed, but there are the empty shells still 

 lying tucked one inside another. 



The cry of the curlew is a musical, if a mournful, 

 sound. But the bird has another note, and the 

 voices of a company flying together are not unlike 

 those of a pack of dogs. Stories are current, among 

 the hills of Devon, of a ghostly huntsman, who with 

 his viewless pack careers across the sky on wild 

 nights in winter. The belated moorman hears in the 

 call of the curlews the ominous baying of the ' whisht- 

 hounds,' and shudders as he hears. For it is death 

 to see them. Ruin will fall upon the house over 

 which they linger in their flight. 



The rain has ceased. The clouds clear off as 

 swiftly as they formed ; the sky is blue and fair. On 



