The Kingfisher. 245 



brating in song and novelists in novels. We shall not 

 intrude on their province further than to say that 

 wherever they can they should set their lovers a walk 

 by just such a streamside as this, whose very course 

 may, as it were, musically mirror theirs, and their soft 

 sighings and whisperings find symbol in those of the 

 running water. 



It is just about such parts of a stream as this, with 

 trees and bushes on the margin, and with little deeper 

 pools here and there, that you may see the kingfisher 



still pursuing his work, proving that, despite all the 

 persecution of sportsmen and specimen-seekers, a few 

 still survive to show to the careful observer how lovely 

 the halcyons are. You can scarcely tell of what colour 

 he is, he is so full of bright shades, as though bur- 

 nished, bronze, chestnut, green and blue, and red and 

 purple, with no end of other colours. Even in the 

 distance you would know him with his long bill, his 

 lengthened wings, and his short, little, stumpy tail, 

 that is better seen as he flies than as he sits when the 



