AUGUST 167 



the mists driving up the pass in slow, spectral proces- 

 sion, black storm-hidden crags above and milk-white 

 torrents racing down the hillsides, until, with a sudden 

 shift of wind, Scawfell's brotherhood of summits 

 stands out bold and clear and sunny gleams turn 

 Grasmere's leaden waters to silver ? Or, yet again, 

 shall we tramp knee-deep in heather over trackless 

 moors, trampling out perfume with every step which 

 scatters the dusty pollen ? 



But our main business after all is with the birds, 

 and few will fail to appreciate the added charm which 

 their presence gives to the wild scenery of which they 

 form a part. The fly-fisher hears the piping of the 

 sandpiper by the edge of some lonely tarn, rouses the 

 heron from his solitary fishing, or sees the dipper 

 shaking off the water as he emerges from the spray of 

 the fall. The rock climber, negotiating an awkward 

 " chimney " or gulley, is conscious of the rush of wings 

 as raven or buzzard passes, apparently not unin- 

 terested in the possibility of a fatal termination to his 

 adventure, and even the tweed-clad sportsman of " the 

 twelfth," though his chief concern is naturally with 

 " the birds," often has an eye for the minor feathered 

 folk — twite, ring-ouzel, golden-plover and the like — 

 which share the grouse-cock's home. 



By mid-August the Ring Ouzels have cleared off 

 most of the bilberries, which form their staple food 

 earlier in the summer, and have come lower to the 



