THE STONECHA T AND WHEA TEAR. 83 



the face of man, and therefore regard his advances with 

 suspicion. 



And every beast before him ran, 

 To shun the hateful sight of man. 



So attached are the little creatures to their particular 

 haunt, that we can scarcely drive them away from it. 

 Wary and watchful, it is true, and only allowing us to 

 approach within a certain distance, yet backwards and 

 forwards they fly, passing and repassing from one stunted 

 bush to another, perching on the topmost sprays, or 

 diving into their arboreal shades, and, no matter how we 

 harass them, seldom if ever quitting the stretch of moor 

 which is their haunt and nesting-ground combined. 



Many persons would probably feel an unavoidable 

 sense of loneliness -creep over them when alone ii\ 

 Nature's wilds, but with me it is the reverse, especially 

 when the feathered company I love is flitting from spray 

 to spray around me. Tnus, if I wander over the seem- 

 ingly interminable moor, though a feeling of nothing- 

 ness captivate me as I gaze upon Nature in her sublime 

 grandeur around, still, when the Red Grouse on whirring 

 wing pursues her skimming flight afar, or the gaily 

 dressed little Stonechat, the bird now before our notice, 

 flits from bush to bush before me as I wander on, I feel 

 as light-hearted as the birds themselves. Mayhap I 

 stroll into the woods when winter holds them in his 

 tight embrace, when the evergreens are bowed down with 

 a snowy covering, and icicles hang pendent from the 

 naked branches ; still no lonely feeling, for at least Cock 

 Robin will come and greet me with a song, or a com- 

 pany of ever active Titmice engage my attention as they 

 wander over the leafless trees and shrubs. If in autumn, 

 that season of all others best adapted to make a thought- 

 ful person feel sad and lonely, as the winds sigh mourn- 



