276 A DAY ON A NORFOLK MERE 



them, and its first step will, probably, also be its 

 last. 



In the water of this smaller pond, about a yard 

 from the bank, I observe a heap of green weeds 

 piled, one upon another, to a foot in height, as 

 you sometimes see them in a river which has been 

 lately mown. I carelessly turn over the topmost 

 layer with my stick, and, to my delight, I see six 

 dirty white eggs beneath. The old bird has heard 

 us coming, and, in a moment, has covered up her 

 eggs and dived deep into the water, nor do we see a 

 trace of her. The eggs are those of the dab-chick, 

 or lesser grebe, a nest which I have never seen since 

 I was at my first school at Blandford, some thirty- 

 five years ago. It was there that I learned to love 

 birds, and so hit upon what has been, and is, and, 

 I trust, always will be, a ruling passion of my life. 



Among the wilder game birds which I have 

 mentioned, there is no lack of the more domesti- 

 cated, the pheasant and the partridge. We stumble 

 upon their nests in every direction. Sometimes a 

 pheasant flies off from right beneath our feet, with 

 a hurry-scurry which makes us fear that she will 

 not return again to her eggs, unless she has begun 

 to sit hard upon them. The keeper will come back, 

 in the evening, to see if she is " at home," and if not, 



