WHEN LIFE STIRS. 



they are not easy, and so we pass on. As we 

 turn a corner of a large furze-brake, a patch of 

 open ground is in front of us — rough nobbly turf 

 littered with grey stones and stunted rush clumps. 

 Hardly have we taken a dozen steps over this, 

 when, with a shriek of Weet, weet, weet ! pewit, 

 wit, wit, peweet — weet wit, wit — weet ! up spring 

 a lot of nesting green plovers. We must stand 

 quite still if we wish to put the finishing touches 

 to our picture ; but we have not long to wait, for 

 from all directions, from dips and hollows where 

 they had been feeding, with rapid beatings of their 

 wings, come the cock pewits. They are directly 

 over us, and are in their breeding plumage — the 

 rich metallic tints of the upper parts flashing in the 

 bright soft sunlight, as they wheel and flap, rise and 

 fall, to rise again in order to dart down like hawks, 

 humming and rustling as they come down, within a 

 few yards of our heads. 



All this fuss is to no purpose, for the creature 

 that has disturbed them remains quite still, as 

 quiet as a post. None of their company are hurt, 

 they find; and they turn from this inspection to 

 ground skirmishing, which they do in the most 



