A MOOKLAND SANCTUARY 129 



was that the time for his departure had not fully 

 come ; he was waiting. On stormy nights, 

 especially, he was restless and anxious, and 

 listened for the signal that should cause him to 

 journey back towards the hills. 



One evening, a cold north-east wind arose, 

 and, as the darkness gathered, a storm of rain and 

 hail beat mercilessty on the marsh. The migrant 

 birds arrived unusually late, and flew so low 

 that they almost touched the tops of the reeds 

 with their wings as they moved slowly in from 

 the edge of the tide, and, slightly altering their 

 course, crossed the wind in the direction of the 

 estuary. At midnight, during a break in the 

 storm, the bittern, standing in the shelter of a 

 rough, reed-grown bank, with his breast to the 

 wind and his head turned sideways to the sea, 

 suddenly recognised, among a small flock of 

 herons and plovers, the familiar shape of a bird 

 of his own kind. His keen sight and hearing 

 could not be deceived ; the form of the approach- 

 ing bird could be easily distinguished, and its 

 beating wings produced a peculiar sound that 

 could not be mistaken. Rising at once and 

 facing the wind, the bittern uttered a harsh call, 

 which to his delight was quickly answered. His 

 waiting and watching were over ; the new- 

 comer was the bird that had shared his last 

 summer's home in the mere beyond the lonely 



