142 MY LIFE AS A NATURALIST 



I go to a belt of woodland. All is quiet, sombre, death-like. 

 A Jay shrieks, or a Woodpecker makes a loud tapping, which 

 strangely disturbs the peace. The trees are stolid, the earth 

 beneath still bears its plenitude of fallen leaves, which rustle 

 as we tread upon them, until we feel that in such a sacred fastness, 

 and under such conditions, we must not invade the place because 

 of its quiet sanctity. 



I meander by the stream. It is still early Spring. The water 

 rushes impetuously on its mad scamper towards the sea. It is 

 strangely different to the scene we witnessed last Summer, and 

 shall yet again. A Moorhen clucks as if she resents intrusion 

 upon her chosen haunt, a Water Vole " bobs " suddenly, and sends 

 a shudder coursing through our veins. Can it be that yonder 

 mud-strewn bank, with its debris brought down by the Winter 

 torrent, will be clothed in after-time with the ruddy glow of 

 Willow Herb, tall spikes of Purple Loosestrife, and giant heads 

 of Hemp Agrimony, among which the Sedge-bird will later play 

 hide and seek ? The Alder and White Poplar alone proclaim 

 that Spring is on the threshold, for the catkins are making head- 

 way, and a solitary Sallow bush, in the watery copse on the 

 opposite shore, is flecked with silver, waiting patiently for the 

 sun and the gentle breeze, the Bees and Flies, and the Willow 

 Wren. 



I hear an unfamiliar bird note. A long Winter has passed 

 since I heard it last, and now it strikes strangely upon the ear. 

 It is just a simple bugle call consisting of two, and sometimes 

 three, notes. Joy steals into my heart, for that feathered 

 messenger has come to tell me of brighter days and sunnier skies, 

 of flowery meadows, and bosky woods. I go on my way rejoicing, 

 for I know from old associations what the presence of that little 

 mite in the willows means to me, but I am unsatisfied. I begin 

 to moralise about the magic of it all. It is strangely elusive. 

 My brain is in a whirl. I want to get at the mind hidden beneath 

 the feathers. A few days previous this ambassador of Spring 

 the Chiff -Chaff was wintering on the northern shores of the 

 Mediterranean, waiting for some strange impulse belonging to 

 bird life before venturing upon its perilous journey, crossing 

 oceans and continents unhindered in a frantic endeavour to return 

 to the spot where, last Summer, it reared its downy brood. 



The little incident mystifies me. I want to follow the bird 

 from the time when the chill of Autumn the previous year warned 

 it to seek a more congenial clime, and I am anxious to see it in 



