HAUNTS OF THE FERN OWL. 



the light leaves, at the firs, mile after mile of them ; 

 rough ground and heather of two kinds pale 

 pink and purple. Furze, ferns, and whortleberry 

 bushes, knee-high. Bushels of fruit have the chil- 

 dren gathered ; the birds, too, have their bills 

 stained deep purple. Plenty there are for all, and 

 to spare. 



We near our resting-place, the low mounds in 

 front, which are the refuse from stone quarries 

 that have been worked and left many years ago. 

 Summer and winter have done their work in crum- 

 bling the stones. The dew blackberry, mixed with 

 tufts of wiry grass, covers the surface. Exposed 

 to the full blaze of the sun all day, you can feel 

 a warmth from them at night, hot as this evening 

 is. Moths congregate here, with other flying things ; 

 the fern owls also. Our feet touch something on 

 the green sheep-track, the remains of a blackcock : 

 and up from the ferns a few steps further on springs 

 a large grey bird, which has just finished his supper. 

 He looks like a gull, but is the full-plumaged male 

 hen-harrier. 



Chur, chur, chur chur. The first rattling of the 

 fern owl. It is answered from twenty different 



