CHAPTER III. 



BIRDS OF MOORLAND, LOCH, AND TARNSIDE. 



WHEN I first opened 

 my eyes, I beheld 

 fair hills, clad in the glory 

 of purple heather, and 

 filled with the sweet music 

 of the moorcock ; and so 

 much of original instinct 

 remains within me that, 

 when irry life work is done, 

 I long to return thither for 

 the sleep that knows no 

 waking. 



Man is a creature of 

 strange follies, and my 

 heart goes out in feminine 



tenderness to the poor fellow who lost a situa- 

 tion and three hundred pounds a year because 

 he could not resist the temptation to run away 

 to his beloved native hills when, in fancy, he 

 heard the grouse becking whilst lying in his bed 

 at dawn, on the twelfth of August, in a far- 

 away, grimy manufacturing town. 



DESCENDING A CLIFF 

 WITH CAMERA. 



