60 STRA Y FEA THERS FROM MANY BIRDS. 



I know she is there, for I have already found her half 

 completed nest. The cock is perched on his favourite 

 stump, the dead stem of a birch tree, which has been 

 blown over by the storm and rests across a big rock. I 

 have seen him here for the past three years in succession. 

 He seems quite like an old friend ; and I take off my 

 hat to him by way of welcome in the impulse of my 

 pleasure at seeing him again. The nest of the Dipper I 

 found amongst the rocks by the stream, the last time I 

 was here, is now finished, and the five white eggs are 

 very warm and discoloured, a sure sign that the chicks 

 will soon be hatched. On the level plateau at the top 

 of the valley amongst the long heather and bilberry 

 wires, the Red Grouse are crowing lustily such bonny 

 cock birds they look, as they stand on the heath tufts, 

 with heads held high and red combs shining in the sun. 

 Their companions, the Merlins, are back again in the old 

 accustomed haunt. I saw the hen bird spring up from 

 the stony ground as I passed. Seven Dotterels are a 

 charming sight as they get up almost at my feet, and fly 

 right across the valley they are only pilgrims here, 

 bound for more northern haunts than Yorkshire. In 

 my excitement over the Dotterels, I nearly missed 

 noting the presence of my little friend the Twite, but he 

 called so persistently to me that I was compelled to see 

 him at last, and to lovingly chronicle his appearance on 

 the moors again. I have seen him or his descendants, 



