A WEEK IN THE HILLS 17 



right angles to a stream, with sides perhaps two 

 hundred feet high, the first hundred and fifty feet a 

 very steep incline, the remaining fifty falling sheer, 

 and in places curving inwards to the crags beneath, 

 where a mountain torrent foams. In this last part of 

 the cliff, under an overhanging boulder of rock, is the 

 nest, a huge pile of sticks lined copiously with 

 heather, wool, hair, and other soit substances, while 

 the whole of the cliffside underneath is freely white- 

 washed by the three young Ravens, marking the site 

 of the eyrie at some distance. From the opposite 

 side of the dingle we can get within twenty feet or so 

 of the nest and look down into the gaping red 

 mouths of the trio. The hen bird meanwhile, up 

 above, is croaking forth her displeasure in no soft 

 language, tearing off the twigs and smaller branches 

 of the mountain-ashes hard by. The cock does not 

 put in an appearance : doubtless he is off foraging on 

 more distant grounds. 



Anxious for a nearer view, we skirt the gorge, and 

 reach the side containing the nest. Every step the 

 cliff gets steeper, but steady does it : mind that 

 apparently firm-looking piece of slate, which if 

 trusted to will land us on the sharp and cruel crags 

 beneath ; cling to any tuft of heather to hand, and 

 now see, this grassy and slippery path, let into the cliff 

 at a breakneck angle, will lead us to within a few feet 

 of the nest. Down we go, inch by inch; here a snag of 

 rock, there a tuft of herbage lending a helping hand. 

 Now clinging with our right to a none too sound ash- 

 tree which fortune throws in our path, we lean cautiously 

 over the cliffside and take our bearings. Yes, there 



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