48 WOODLANDERS AND FIELD FOLK 



tower over all. Reed-sparrows are deep down in the 

 flags, and a water-ouzel runs at the bottom of the 

 brook. The larvae of caddis-flies cover the bed of the 

 streams, and a kingfisher darts over its surface. 

 Cuckoos fly from tree to tree, calling as they fly; 

 and a water-hen wades out among the reeds, though 

 soon the parting grasses hide it. The sunshine 

 dances on the ripples, and the hardly-moving foliage 

 throws frescoes on the water. At the bend of the 

 stream is a lime. You may almost see its glutinous 

 leaves unfolding to the light. Its winged flowers 

 are infested with bees. Upon the trunk is a dead 

 bough, almost at the bottom of the bole; upon it 

 there sits a grey-brown bird, that ever and anon 

 darts for a moment, hovers over the stream, and 

 returns to its perch. A hundred times it flutters, 

 secures its insect prey, and takes up its old position. 

 Bronze fly, filmy ephemerae and droning bee are 

 secured alike. All serve as food to the lovable 

 spotted fly-catcher a little summer migrant that 

 returns to our gardens and orchards about the 

 second week in May. As I lie lazily watching the 

 bird, shaded by giant " gicks," a white-winged 

 butterfly hovers over the lower branches of the lime. 

 The bird gives chase. Miniature falconry, aerial 

 fluttering, and pretty evolutions succeed. On the 

 stump the butterfly is devoured, and beneath are a 

 number of small pellets. These consist of hard, 



