BIRD LIFE IN WINTER 



101 



a rock close by, he continues to emit the sharp sorrow- 

 ful note, and if you listen it infects your mind with 

 its sadness and mystery. You can imagine that the 

 wind-blown feathered mite is not what it seems, a 

 mere pipit, but a spirit of that place in the shape and 

 with the voice of a mournful little bird a spirit that 

 cannot go away nor die, nor ever forget the unhappy 

 things it witnessed in pity and terror long ages gone 

 when an ancient people, or a fugitive remnant, 

 gathered at this desolate end of all the land a tragedy 

 so old that it was forgotten on the earth and those 

 who had part in it turned to dust thousands of 

 years ago. 



