Haunts of the Lapwing 



swathed in gloom. Upwards the still air thickens, 

 and there is no arch or vault of heaven. Formless 

 and vague, it seems some vast shadow descending. 

 The sun has disappeared, and the light there still 

 is, is left in the atmosphere enclosed by the gloomy 

 mist as pools are left by a receding tide. Through 

 the sand the water slips, and through the mist the 

 light glides away. Nearer comes the formless shadow 

 and the visible earth grows smaller. The path has 

 faded, and there are no means on the open downs of 

 knowing whether the direction pursued is right or 

 wrong, till a boulder (which is a landmark) is per- 

 ceived. Thence the way is down the slope, the last 

 and limit of the hills there. It is a rough descent, the 

 paths worn by sheep may at any moment cause a 

 stumble. At the foot is a waggon-track beside a low 

 hedge, enclosing the first arable field. The hedge is 

 a guide, but the ruts are deep, and it still needs slow 

 and careful walking. Wee-ah-wee! Up from the 

 dusky surface of the arable field springs a plover, 

 and the notes are immediately repeated by another. 

 They can just be seen as darker bodies against the 

 shadow as they fly overhead. Wee-ah-wee! The 

 sound grows fainter as they fetch a longer circle in 

 the gloom. 



There is another winter resort of plovers in the 

 valley where a barren waste was ploughed some years 

 ago. A few furze bushes still stand in the hedges 

 about it, and the corners are full of rushes. Not all 

 the grubbing of furze and bushes, the deep plough- 

 ing and draining, has succeeded in rendering the 

 place fertile like the adjacent fields. The character 

 of a marsh adheres to it still. So long as there is a 

 crop, the lapwings keep away, but as soon as the 

 ploughs turn up the ground in autumn they return. 

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