144 WILD LIFE ON A NORFOLK ESTUARY 



indeed, if in the dusk he seizes his flying prey between his 

 teeth. Anyway, we can distinctly hear him scrunch up the 

 beetle, hard wing-cases as well, as he loiters a moment or two 

 in his flight. Our hearing is keener than that of many 

 persons, and we can say what some disbelieve that we 

 have often heard the quick snap of a swallow's or a house- 

 martin's mandibles closing on a fly as the bird flitted by. As 

 to the number of moths upon the wing, an entomologist 

 might run himself tired in pursuit of the various species. 

 The open doors of the houseboat, with the rays of our lamp 

 shining brightly beyond, attract a number of them, and so 

 many white, grey, brown and variously speckled creatures 

 flutter into the cabin that it has become an insectarium. 



Before it was quite so dark as it is just now, we had occa- 

 sion to push off in the punt to the marshman's house across 

 the river. A distorted willow fronts the house ; this was 

 surrounded by quite a host of ghostlike moths, white and as 

 glossy as satin. These a fern-owl shortly after found out 

 perhaps he knew the spot well and he flitted around quite 

 merrily, jarring his strange whirling note at intervals every 

 time he alighted upon a broken rail beside the tree, and sat 

 tail up, as if the. weight of his supper had spoilt his balance. 

 But this is an odd way Master Goatsucker has of resting. 



Who loves the rippling song of the reeds, loves also the 

 brisker notes of the reed-warbler. One at our elbow bursts 

 forth into a spirited roundelay his one and oft repeated 

 song. The little fellow, not larger than a linnet, and too 

 bashful to force his presence unduly upon our notice, seems 

 to have a heart so full of merriment that he must needs 

 wake up at intervals during the night to give vent to his 

 exuberance of spirits. This song he sang at Whitsuntide, 

 and he has not yet tired of it, nor have we. We never saw 

 such a fellow! The bolting of a water-vole, the whispering 

 of the wind through the reed-bed, the slush of a bream, or 

 the croak of a moorhen will certainly disturb him, but he is 

 never resentful, never sullen ; instead, he cheers himself with 

 song, like a true philosopher. So he never seems to make 

 enemies, although some take advantage of him. The other 

 day we saw a reed-warbler chasing a small blue dragon-fly as 

 it skidded past his lair his home at least, for his nest, sus- 

 pended on a scaffolding of reed-stems, we found in that reed- 



