The Return of the Fieldfare. ng 



No sound disturbs the quiet save the scream of a jay 

 in the shadows of the larchwood, the cry of a hawk as 

 he drifts along the grey rampart of the hill, or the call 

 of a woodpecker from the dim recesses of the orchard. 



High up in the tall ash that leans out of the hedge- 

 row sits a fieldfare, keeping sharp look-out on all the 

 world below. 



The finches and yellow-hammers take little heed as 

 you move with quiet footfall down the grassy way. 



But the fieldfare has eyes for everything. He is on 

 sentry. 



Scattered over the ground in the next pasture is the 

 flock of his companions. There is a gate yonder from 

 which you may watch them. But the sentry gives a 

 warning call. The foraging party look up, and in- 

 stantly take wing for the trees that skirt the meadow. 



There are few shyer birds than the fieldfare whsn 

 first he comes to us a stranger ; and as long as the 

 weather keeps mild it will not be easy to get within 

 reach of him. But when the ground grows hard 

 under the breath of Winter, and the hedgerow fruits 

 alone afford them a scanty living, fieldfares become 

 more bold, and venture nearer the abodes of man. 

 Should the cold continue, they will go farther south, 

 and we shall see no more of them until they pass us 

 in the spring on their homeward journey 



Hewitson, who was the first Englishman to describe 

 the breeding haunts of the fieldfare, found the birds 

 building in companies hundreds of nests together in 



