MAY in 



waxen blossoms and the wOod sorrel, with its delicately- 

 veined flowers, clothe every ledge. The white- 

 breasted Dipper will fly before us with sharp "zit, 

 zit," or stand on a stone bowing to its reflection in 

 the water, while sprightly Grey Wagtails, surely the 

 most graceful of a graceful family, and full of life as the 

 waters of the infant river, fly from stone to stone 

 amongst the eddies and spray at the foot of the fall. 

 The male has the full black throat and the special 

 call-note "twee, twee" of the breeding season. Birch 

 and rowan (how preferable is the old North Country 

 name to " mountain ash ") now begin to clothe the 

 sides of the little dale, furnishing nesting holes to many 

 a pair of Redstarts and Pied Flycatchers. Many a 

 May morning here sees a keen white frost and, when 

 such an one falls late in the month, we have seen the 

 opening fern-fronds and the young shoots of ash and 

 oak hang black and dead. A Raven passes with hoarse 

 croak, and from far up in the blue comes the wild 

 mewing cry of a soaring Buzzard. Its mate sweeps 

 out from the ivied crag to join it. Stunted trees 

 cling to the face of the cliff and, supported by one of 

 these, is the nest, nearly a yard across, built of smaller 

 sticks than that of the raven, lined with tufts of moor- 

 grass torn up by the roots and garnished round the edge 

 of the cup with fresh leafy twigs of birch. As we 

 climb to it, the cries of the birds become more angry 

 than plaintive, and their lazy floating is exchanged 



