A DORSET DIARY 163 



when it was part of the tropical belt, and has failed so 

 far to adapt his constitution to the changed conditions. 

 In the same way it seems to me possible that the 

 nightingale fails to cross his limited area of the Home 

 Counties, because its borders at one time were that of 

 the ice zone. It is easy to distinguish redwing from 

 song-thrush, not only by the orange-chestnut of the 

 flanks, but the white eye-stripe. 



In a cowyard filled with muddy water I had a good 

 sight of a mistle-thrush, a bullfinch and a pair of grey 

 wagtails. The bullfinch against the dark mud and the 

 sodden leaves was sumptuous, Oriental, a small ambas- 

 sador to us islanders from Araby or the Spice Islands. 

 A wonderful mean has been struck between harmony 

 and contrast in the colouring, so right and yet so auda- 

 cious. 



December 13th. I saw seven bullfinches to-day, and 

 these fairy lamps (burly in form though they be) 

 seemed to light up the grey winter day. As I stood 

 under an elm in the hedgerow a great cry burst out of 

 the dark air, and sweeping out of it with closed wings came 

 the yaffle upon the bark becoming instantly motion- 

 less, with body and head pressed back from the trunk, 

 so that he looked like a statue cut out of jade. Then 

 he looked down waggishly at me, and away he went 

 into the murk with that rushing, soaring and dipping 

 flight of his like sudden breaths. Still standing, I 

 was passed by two assemblies of tits, like a company 

 of mediaeval mummers going the rounds, or a gang 

 of labourers in some minute and perfect state. Climbing 

 the hill, a covey of partridges shot away from me with 

 rapid wing-beats, and a moment later an immense 

 flock of gulls and rooks came up the sky from the 

 pastures and began wheeling in and out, backwards 

 and forwards through each other's ranks. It was a 

 pied cloud drifting the lower ether. In a desolate part 

 of the hills I encountered a single marsh-tit, thus for 

 once in a way justifying his reputation as a wanderer 

 in solitary places. Descending into the valley again, 

 I made out siskins (a beautiful composite of yellow, 

 black, grey, green and white even in the dulled winter 



