128 More Tales of the Birds 



off to the south they could see the glitter of the 

 sea fretted into a million little dancing waves. 

 Nearer at hand were the long sweeping curves of 

 chalk down, the most beautiful of all British hills, 

 for those who know and love them ; with here and 

 there a red-tiled farmhouse lurking in a cool 

 recess, or a little watercourse springing from the 

 point where down and cultivation meet, and 

 marking its onward course by the bushes and 

 withy-beds beside it. 



A Wheatear, newly arrived in the glory of 

 slaty-blue plumage, stood bowing at them on a 

 big stone -hard by. A Stonechat, on the top twig 

 of a gorse-bush, bade a sturdy defiance to all 

 bird-catchers. The Cuckoo could be faintly 

 heard from the vale behind them ; still the Orni- 

 thologist held his hand. 



Suddenly there came dancing overhead, here, 

 there, and everywhere, gone in a moment and 

 back again, half a dozen little twittering fairies ; 

 and then one of them, alighting no one knows 

 how or when, sat bolt upright on a gorse-bush, 

 and turned a crimson breast and forehead towards 

 the Ornithologist. His hand was already on the 



