80 AUGUST IN BROADLAND. 



Note yon slender pied wagtails nimbly running by that roadside puddle ! 

 The rain troubles them little so long as it washes the gnats and midges within 

 reach of their mandibles. The rooks upon the old elm trees are not nearly so 

 well pleased. It is a sorry time they are having while the rough wind is shaking 

 the twigs and grass-bents from their family mansions. With drooping and be- 

 draggled wings they are hoping the squall will soon have passed, and that another 

 hour's grubbing may be yet done before nightfall. The song birds have ceased 

 their merrymaking, even the lark has dropped in the stubble dispirited and has 

 finished his song. 



But the wind is subsiding, the thick clouds have parted, and streaks of blue 

 peer through with the sunlight. The storm is over, dead twigs lie scattered along 

 the roadway. The roadside hollows are filled with turbid water. Kaindrops hang 

 from leaf and flower sparkling with the lustre of so many pearls and diamonds. The 

 birds are again joyous, and many are warbling their delight in a song of gladness. 

 There is a rainbow in the east, and the sinking sun is kissing all Nature into a blush 

 of beauty. Tints of purple and gold gather in the west, and a crimson glow paints 

 the horizon as he slowly recedes from view. The harvestmen, who have been 

 1 standing up' for shelter, are hastening homeward, our old friend Jem Trett 

 amongst them. It is almost needless to say we enter into a friendly confab, which 

 finishes at the Broad-margin, where we take leave of him to enjoy a quiet half-hour 

 in the gloaming and quietude of evening. 



It were intensely quiet but for the varied sounds which Nature makes around 

 us. There is quite a riot, indeed, in the reed-bed; the crowding starlings are squab- 

 bling for roosting-places for the night. Bunch after bunch have been dropping in 

 this half-hour. They have filled their crops with grubs and beetles, have executed 

 their characteristic gyrations in the air, and would settle to nap till early morning. 

 But each fresh company on arrival disturbs its luckier companions, who protest 

 against the invasion of their rights. The moorhen's harsh croak is frequent, and 

 other less familiar notes are heard at intervals. The ter-ick of the partridge 

 resounds in the fields, and the soft cooing of the turtle dove issues from the leafy 

 wood. The hirundines are still dashing to and fro. A small wading bird flies 

 past us uttering a peculiarly shrill, piping cry, which we recognise as that of the 

 green sandpiper. A freshly ' fyed-out ' dyke we passed has had some attraction 

 for it, no doubt ; this species loves to hunt among the debris of the ditches. 



Harken to that queer jarring sound ! it is like the shaking of a rattle or the 

 turning of a ropemaker's wheel. It is none other than a fern-owl or night-jar 



