The Bird Book 



young ones more than once by the second week 

 in April, little black-skinned, naked creatures, 

 which can hardly be called beautiful. 



Here and there the river passes through 

 meadows, cutting its way deep through the sandy 

 soil, and in the banks, colonies of Sand Martins 

 have their nests. They are smaller than House 

 Martins and may be recognised at once by being 

 sandy-brown instead of black on the back. The 

 nests are placed in small chambers at the end of 

 tunnels scraped out by the birds and from four to 

 six white eggs are laid on a small accumulation of 

 straw and feathers. 



The tide of this river flows up for about seven 

 miles and the upper reaches of the tidal portion are 

 the haunt of many a Kingfisher. Beautifully 

 wooded hills fall abruptly to the very edge of the 

 river and many a tree stretches out its boughs well 

 over the water. On these the Kingfishers sit, 

 watching for fish beneath them, or fly swiftly like 

 some blue flash of light to a more exposed perch. 

 There is no need to describe the Kingfisher even 

 if words could describe his brilliant, prismatic 

 hues, for he is well known and there is no 

 possibility of mistaking him for any other bird. 

 As far as my experience goes, I believe the bird is 

 again on the increase, and not long ago I had the 

 pleasure of seeing one on a small pond, not five 

 miles from Charing Cross, a pond which, I am told, 

 he has frequented for years. 

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