The Winter Birds. 271 



Such scenes can the Forest show to the ornithologist in 

 spring and summer, nor is it less interesting to him in the 

 winter. Here, as he wanders across some moor, flocks of field- 

 fares and missel-thrushes start out of the hollies, and the riuL'- 

 ousel skulks off from the yew. A hittern, its neck encircled 

 with a brown frill of feathers, is, perhaps, wading by the stream ; 

 and hark ! from out of the sky comes the clanging of a wedge- 

 shaped flock of grey-lag geese. 



Instead of a chapter a volume might be written upon the 

 ornithology of the New Forest, especially about the winter 

 visitants — the flocks of pochards, and teal, and tufted-ducks, 

 which darken the Avon, and the swans and geese which whiten 

 the Solent. I have stood for hours on the beach at Calshot, and 

 watched the faint cloud in the horizon gradually change into a 

 mass of wings beating with one stroke, or marked string after 

 string of wigeon come splashing down in the mid-channel. 

 Little flocks of ring-dotterels and dunlins flit overhead, their 

 white breasts flashing in the winter sun every time they wheeled 

 round. The shag flies heavily along, close to the water, with 

 his long outstretched neck, melancholy and slow, and the cry 

 of the kittiwake sounds from the mud-flats. 



To leave, however, the winter birds, and to pass on to more 

 general observations, let me notice a curious fact al)out the 

 tree-creeper {Certhia familiaris) in the southern parts of the 

 Forest. Here there are large plantations of firs, and conse- 

 quently but few holes in the trees. To make up for this 

 deficiency, I have twice found the creeper's nest placed 

 inside a squirrel's " cage," showing the same adaptal)ility to 

 circumstances which is met with in the whole animal creation. 

 Here, too, in these thick firs build great numbers of jays ; and 

 I have, when climbing up to their nests, more than once seen 



