268 THE LAND'S END 



unmarked, and still no new bird from oversea has 

 come to take their place. Then, one day in March 

 when the sun shines, as you stroll by the sea, sud- 

 denly a flash of white comes before you at a dis- 

 tance of forty or fifty yards and you see your first 

 wheatear, or whitaker as the natives call him, back 

 in his old home among the rocks. And as he is 

 the first to come you think him the most beautiful 

 bird in the world in his chaste and delicate dress of 

 black and white and buff and clear blue-grey. And 

 so when you first hear him uttering his wild brief 

 warble, as he flutters in the air in appearance a great 

 black and white butterfly, you think that no sound 

 can compare with it in exquisite purity and sweetness. 

 Away from the sea you will hear no spring bird ; 

 the only songs are of the resident species which you 

 have heard at intervals throughout the winter robin 

 and wren and dunnock and lark and corn bunting. 

 The only new song if song it may be called is not 

 uttered by a bird at all, although it often has a curi- 

 ously bird-like musical tinkle. You begin to hear 

 it as you ramble among the furze thickets in the 

 neighbourhood of some hidden stream a succes- 

 sion of chirping and croaking sounds in various keys, 

 and sounds like the craking of corncrakes, and at 

 intervals the little musical sounds as of birds and of 

 running water. The frogs are having their grand 

 annual carnival, and when seen congregated at the 

 water-courses, it is strange to think they should be 

 so abundant in this stony district overgrown with 

 harsh furze, ling and bracken. You have perhaps 



