AN ORNITHOLOGIST ON THE DANUBE. 553 



wading, now creeping and gliding, we endeavoured, unseen and un- 

 heard, to approach the trees bearing the nests; for hours we crouched 

 expectantly beneath them in huts hastily built with branches, gazing 

 eagerly up at the eagles, which, startled by us or others, were wheel- 

 ing and circling high in the air, and showing no inclination to 

 return to their nests, but which we knew must return sometime, and 

 would probably fall victims to us. We were able to observe them 

 very accurately and fully, and this eagle-hunt gained, therefore, an 

 indescribable charm for us all. 



Except for the eagles and other birds of prey which we secured, 

 the forests, which looked so promising, proved, or at any rate seemed, 

 to be poor in feathered inhabitants. Of course it was early in 

 the year, and the stream of migration was still in full flood; nor did 

 we succeed in investigating more than the outskirts of the forest. 

 But even the number of birds which had returned and taken up 

 their quarters on the outskirts of the forest did not come up to our 

 expectations. And yet this apparent poverty disappointed me less 

 than the lack of good songsters. The song-thrush did indeed pour 

 forth its rich music through the woods fragrant with the breath of 

 spring; here and there a nightingale sang; the finch warbled its 

 spring greeting everywhere; and even a white-throat tried its notes, 

 but none of these satisfied our critical ear. All who sang or warbled 

 seemed merely bunglers, not masters. And at last we began to feel 

 that real song did not belong to those dark woods at all, that 

 the cries of eagles and falcons, the hooting of horned owls and 

 screech-owls, the croaking of water-hens and terns, the shrill cry of 

 herons and the laughter of woodpeckers, the cuckoos' call and the 

 cooing of stock-doves were the music best befitting them, and that, 

 besides these, the only bird that had a right to sing was the sedge- 

 warbler, who lived among the reeds and bulrushes, and who had 

 borrowed most of his intricate song from the frogs. 



On the fourth day we hunted in the Keskender forest, a few miles 

 from the banks of the Danube. As we left the forests on the river 

 banks, we had to traverse a great plain bounded in the far distance 

 by a chain of hills. Our route lay through well-cultivated fields 

 belonging to the large estate of Bellye — a model of good manage- 



