CHAPTER V 

 THE WHIN CHAT 



WHEN the soft grey showers gleam across the marsh- 

 lands in silvery April, little flocks of whinchats appear 

 amongst the dead thistles and gorsy clumps of verdure on 

 the flatland; a gay cock and two or three sober hens, 

 generally feeding together, hunting over the marshland for 

 flies and moths, their favourite food. Indeed, they follow 

 the marsh-mowers, with other birds, to snatch the moths 

 from the swathes, as those insects fly startled from the 

 falling marsh crops. The gaily painted little grasshoppers, 

 too, are a staple dish. You may lie upon the marsh, hidden 

 in tussocks of rush, and watch the lively birds flying from 

 a gorse spray to the ground to feed, and you will see them 

 flit back calling " utick } utick ;" or perhaps one will sit on 

 a spray just above the marsh, and sing a pretty sweet little 

 song. 



Then something seizes their minds, and they flit off to 

 another gorse bush, and again the same ceremonials are 

 gone through. By the beginning of June they are paired, 

 and build their hedge-sparrow-like nest of grass, often lined 

 with the flaxen down of the gladen spindle, in rush bushes, 

 brambles, or gorse plants that clump together on the marshes 

 in prickly islets. They prefer these islets to be by the dike- 

 side, for they delight in the presence of water, and there 

 by the dikes, gay with flowers, you may hear their short 

 calling whistles. And should you perchance see them 

 whistling, you will see their tails jerked up every time they 

 speak. Or at times you see them sitting upon a fork- 



