THE KINGFISHER. 



HE is the most brilliant of English wild birds. When 

 he flashes out into the sunshine from the shade of 

 the bushes and trees that fringe his favourite 

 stream, he looks like a veritable living jewel. 



For where can you match among our northern birds 

 his wonderful colouring? He has been likened to a 

 sapphire by some ; by others, to an emerald. But he 

 combines the colours of both these gems and of more 

 besides. 



If a single Peacock can give glory to a big garden, a 

 single Kingfisher can give glory and interest even to a 

 dull little watercourse, and he is but a pigmy comjoared 

 with the stately bird that has the stars in its fan. Even 

 the prosy person who does not care about wild birds in 

 general is all alert when this glittering marvel flits past 

 him up or down the brook or river. 



It is rather surprising, when you come to think of it, 

 that there are so many Kingfishers left in this island of 

 ours. For, unhappily, it is all too true that for a bird to 

 be beautiful means that it has many enemies — people who 

 care nothing for it for its own sake, bat covet it for the 

 profit they can make out of it. Some of them kill it for 

 the sake of selling its plumage to the dealers, who in turn 

 supply it to the milliners, or to the makers of fishing 

 tackle, who use the bright blue feathers for making certain 

 flies for fly-fishing. While others stufi" the poor little 

 dead body and put it under a glass case — as if there could 



151 



