MOORLAND IDYLLS. 



cried, seizing my arm in her excitement. 

 And, indeed, the vision was a marvellous 

 and a lovely one. From the lonely pine- 

 tree that tops the long spur above the 

 Golden Glen, a ceaseless stream of brown 

 birds seemed to flow and disengage itself. 

 It was a living cataract. By dozens and 

 hundreds they poured down from their 

 crowded perch ; and the more of them 

 poured down, the more there were left of 

 them. What a miracle of packing ! They 

 must have hustled and jostled one another 

 as thick on the boughs as swarming bees 

 that cling in a cluster round their virgin 

 queen ; while as for the ground beneath, it 

 seethed and swelled like an ant-heap. For 

 several minutes the pack rose from its camp, 

 and fluttered and flowed down the steep side 

 of the moor toward Wednesday Bottom, 

 flying low in a serried mass, yet never 

 seeming to be finished. They reminded me 

 of those cunning long processions at the 

 play, when soldiers and village maidens 



50 



