At Home with Wild Nature 



it from the topmost spray of a bush with his long tail 

 erected at a jaunty angle and the feathers on his head 

 crested like those of a lark or jay. 



Anyone unacquainted with the habits of this species 

 might visit a favourite haunt on a dull, windy day, and, 

 after a careful search, leave the place again under the 

 honest impression that the Dartford warbler did not 

 exist in that neighbourhood at all. 



Many a glorious May morning have I sat on a little 

 treeless peak of my Surrey moor and looked down upon 

 a favourite haunt of this elusive creature. Let me try 

 to picture it. The scene consisted of a long slope of the 

 finest heather in the world, studded here and there on 

 its nether half with clumps and solitary bushes of furze ; 

 in the middle distance a stretch of sour bogland, marked 

 by little pools of stagnant water, and the deep ruts of 

 an ancient cart track winding across its surface with the 

 inconsequent waywardness of a snail's trail, succeeded 

 by a low sandy ridge impenetrably covered with pile 

 upon pile of golden gorse, now in the full glory of its 

 bloom bearing, and beyond an old-time squatter's 

 poverty-stricken clearing, with its red-tiled cottage 

 standing out in pitiful loneliness against an almost black 

 background of giant pine trees. 



It will be noticed that my little word picture has 

 been written in the past tense. Alas ! yes, because 

 heath fires and the wheels of many engines of war in 

 training for sterner work on other shores have destroyed 

 the beauty of the place almost beyond recognition. 

 During my last visit I failed to find a single Dartford 



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