Wanderings of a Naturalist 



3,500 feet above sea level a pair of dotterel had taken up 

 their quarters this June of which I write. All around this 

 lochan ptarmigan croak of a fine sunny day, and the snow- 

 bunting twitters from the "scree " hard by or rises into the 

 air after the manner of a tree pipit. No trout are in the 

 lochan. It is too high for them, and is frozen across from 

 October until the early days of June. 



During fine evenings of June from various parts of the 

 forest may be heard curious bubbling cries. They commence 

 after sunset, by ten o'clock have ceased, but at dawn are re- 

 commenced. These are the battle calls of the blackcock, and 

 come from the gathering ground of the clan, where, with each 

 dawn and to a lesser extent each evening, all the male birds 

 within a considerable radius assemble to fight and "spar." 



Another bird cry which is heard at dawn is the trilling of 

 the melancholy curlew, that bird of the restless spirit whose 

 call in olden time was heard with superstition and dread. 



But during the season of which I write, the freshness and 

 calm of June was broken into tragically by a great forest fire. 

 Its origin was mysterious, but, fanned by a fierce wind after 

 weeks of drought, the flames shot forward with incredible 

 speed, consuming heather, bushes, and even stately pines in 

 their path. And with their passing, gone were the young 

 broods of the birds that nest in the forest. The birds, great 

 and small, seemed to be fascinated by the fire, and were 

 unable to escape, though a pair of crested tits showed re- 

 markable wisdom, for they shepherded their newly fledged 

 brood from tree to tree until they were out of the track of the 

 flames. Before the fire the forest was a thing of beauty, 

 pulsating with youthful life. At its passing it was a land 

 desolate and charred, wherein no living thing stirred. 



