CHAPTER VI 



THE GOLDEN PLOVER 



THE tides of February are come, bringing with them the 

 breath of spring in the air. What little breeze there is 

 blows softly from the south. The North Sea is calm and 

 blue, and the swell breaks lazily on the long golden sands. 

 A few miles out to sea lie the Fame Islands, each islet 

 standing out clear in the sunlight. A little to the north of 

 the main group is the bare rock known as the Megstone, 

 where many cormorants nest. Through the glass they can 

 be seen perched about the rock, their thoughts evidently 

 turning, this fine day, to family matters. South'ard lie the 

 Longstone, with its lighthouse; the Brownsman, the haunt 

 of countless gulls and puffins throughout the summer; the 

 Wamses, the home of the tribe of the sea swallows; and 

 many other outlying rocks and islets. To the south of them 

 all the long black rock known as the Crumstone just tops the 

 water at the full of the tide. Away inland, and almost due 

 west, Cheviot and its attendant hills stand on the horizon, 

 still under the spell of frost and snow. Such is the winter 

 home of the golden plover. 



But with each spring-like day these birds become pos- 

 sessed with a great restlessness, for their thoughts turn to 

 their spring haunts amidst the hills, and before February is 

 out many of them have left their winter quarters for the 

 moors. To-day the plover are flying restlessly, at a con- 

 siderable height and at a great speed. Their wing-beats are 

 powerful and clean cut, the whole flock wheeling and swerving 

 with remarkable precision. Passing overhead, their clear, 

 tuneful whistle can be heard as they call to each other. 



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