72 WITH THE WOODLANDERS. 



time. We can hear their singing, for the thrushes 

 and blackbirds have rested for a time. The simple 

 act of passing through a gate in the hedge reveals 

 to us a migrant paradise, only one out of thousands 

 which are to be found on the tops of our glorious 

 Surrey hills. 



Here is a fine open bit of mossy greensward, 

 dotted, not covered, with junipers, low firs, and 

 magnificent clumps of dog - roses and briars. A 

 belt of noble beeches surrounds it, and this is circled 

 round again by firs. Here the sun shines nearly 

 the whole day long, and the butterflies are flit 

 flit flitting all over the sward and dog-rose clumps ; 

 here the white-throats are in force, the larger species 

 especially. One throws himself up above the mass 

 of rose-blossoms that conceal his mate who is sit- 

 ting snugly below, then drops down, almost touching 

 the flowers ; he jerks up again, chattering and sing- 

 ing, his crest up and wings quivering. To look at 

 him, you would imagine that he had much to say 

 which was very important, and that some imperative 

 bird-law only allowed him a few moments in which 

 to say it. It is soon over : he catches something, 

 and glides like a mouse with it to his mate below. 



