Wild Life on a Surrey Moor 



woods, heaped up mass on mass, form the background, 

 and lastly, numerous pathetic evidences in the shape of 

 ancient, long since crumbled turf walls, and silted-up 

 dykes, of man's aggressive but happily unsuccessful 

 onslaughts upon this bit of God's wilderness, and he, or 

 she, will be able to conjure up, I hope, a fair picture 

 of my little corner of Surrey. 



Let us make the acquaintance of some of the 

 feathered folks living, loving, and labouring on the 

 moor. It is a fine May morning. The rich scent of the 

 pine trees fills the air, and the little pools of water by 

 the roadside are covered with their yellow pollen dust, 

 just as if a bag of brimstone had been shaken over them. 

 A sandy side track, leading nowhere in particular, 

 shoots us out, with agreeable suddenness, on to 

 heathery, breeze-kissed spaces. 



Ah ! there's a familiar note. A common whitethroat 

 scolding over my intrusion. I stand still, and presently 

 he forgets his resentment, and, mounting twenty or 

 thirty feet into the air, descends again on outspread 

 wings and tail, every hurried note and action proving 

 that his little heart is bubbling over with the joys of 

 being. Down he comes singing all the way to the top- 

 most spray of a furze bush, which is one golden blaze 

 of richly scented bloom. He has a nest and sitting 

 mate close at hand. A little search reveals the frail 

 cradle of dead grass stems and horse-hair with five eggs 

 in it. Whilst the wee home is being examined the old 

 birds skulk in a tangled patch of furze and heather close 

 by and scold me roundly in their characteristically 



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