64 KING-FISHER 



dips the fine feathered sprigs of its flesh-coloured tufts 

 into the current; almond-scented meadow-sweet perfumes 

 the air, whilst the dark red fruit of the wild raspberry 

 bushes gleam in the darkness. 



1 used to scramble into the pass by letting myself 

 down an almost impracticable path, fit only for goats, 

 creeping like a cat under bowers of entangled bram- 

 bles. In the hot hours of the afternoon I used to delight 

 ill this solitude and freshness. The dark river was mur- 

 muring softly ; now and then, some small bright drops 

 would rain down from the overhanging branches and 

 ripple the surface of the water. It was there that I made 

 the acquaintance of the king-fisher. 



The one that haunted that peaceful retreat had pro- 

 bably built its nest in the neighbourhood, in the lurking- 

 hole of some fresh-water crab, for 1 often saw it shoot 

 like an arrow over the current. It used to graze the water 

 with a plaintive cry and then disappear suddenly. I had 

 hardly time to admire its back and its greenish blue tail, 

 its wings and head covered with turquoise-coloured spots, 

 its fiery-red breast and chest. At first, my presence used 

 to disturb the wild, shy bird ; but after a while, my dis- 

 creet and peaceful mood would make it more confident, 

 and it would finally circulate under the bushes, without 

 heeding me any more than if I had been the trunk of a 

 tree. I would often perceive it in the green, dim twilight 

 of the sleeping river, perched motionless on a hazel-nut 



