BIRD LIFE IN WINTER 99 



Not a furze clump, nor stone hedge, nor farm build- 

 ing, nor old ruined tin -mine, nor rocky headland, 

 but has its wren, and go where you will in this half- 

 desert silent place you hear at intervals his sharp 

 strident note ; but not to welcome you. Your heavy 

 footsteps have disturbed and brought him out of his 

 hiding-place to look at you and vehemently express 

 his astonishment and disapproval. And having done 

 so he vanishes back into seclusion and dismisses the 

 fact of your existence from his busy practical little 

 mind. He is at home, but not to you. 'Tis the 

 only home he knows and he likes it very well, finding 

 his food and roosting by night and rearing his young 

 just in that place, with fox and adder and other deadly 

 creatures for only neighbours. Such a mite of a bird 

 with such small round feeble wings and no more 

 blood in him than would serve to wet a weasel's 

 whistle ! Best of all it is to see him among the rude 

 granite rocks of a headland, living in the roar of the 

 sea : when the wind falls or a gleam of winter sun- 

 shine visits earth you will find him at a merry game 

 of hide-and-seek with his mate among the crags, 

 pausing from time to time in his chase to pour out 

 that swift piercing lyric which you will hear a thou- 

 sand times and never without surprise at its power 

 and brilliance. 



In these waste stony places, where the wren is 

 common, another small feathered creature was with 

 me just as often the anxious, irresolute meadow 

 pipit, or titlark, who is the very opposite in character 

 to the brisk, vigorous, positive little brown bird whose 



