THROUGH THE YEAR 83 



my chest rather uncomfortably once as I neared the 

 ground and groped for foothold. I was brushing 

 through the thick heath and blueberry, picking up 

 some moulted feathers of an eagle when a shout 

 from my companions made me look up. The parent 

 birds were athwart the pine hill across the glen, 

 gliding round and upward in great sweeps ! 



The swift is still, to me, the traveller of travellers 

 on the airy way the most constant and tireless 

 traveller and dweller in it because all day, from 

 light till dark, the swift never leaves it. Nothing 

 can spoil me for swifts. 



But the eagle is sublime as he swings into the 

 blue heights over the deer forest. The eagle is the 

 bird of the sun, the bird of Jove. 



The eagles, seeing us, mounted higher and 

 higher, till my eye began to fail me and I had to rely 

 on field-glasses. I could distinctly see both as they 

 spired round and round, up and up, and there were 

 a few moments at first when the glasses actually 

 showed me the tawny colour on the back and neck. 

 Then, as one of them swung up to a great height 

 almost above me, there glowed on it those rainbow 

 colours, spirit-like colours, I have often seen on 

 swans and pochards in the water. 



The body of the eagle turned to gold, and com- 

 pletely round the bird there ran an edging of in- 

 tense, lit blue. . . . Gradually the eagle spired 

 clean from sight . . . my glasses failed me in 

 the burning glare overhead. 



I sought the other bird, and found it a mile above 



