CHAP. XXV. | WATER-OUZELS—KINGFISHER. 199 
malcula which he can dislodge. On two or three occasions, I 
have witnessed this act of the water-ouzel, and have most dis- 
tinctly seen the bird walking and feeding in this manner under 
the pellucid waters of a Highland burn. It is in this way that 
the water-ouzel is supposed to commit great havoc in the spawn- 
ing beds of salmon and trout, uncovering the ova, and leaving 
what it does not eat open to the attacks of eels and other fish, or 
liable to be washed away by the current; and, notwithstanding 
my regard for this little bird, I am afraid I must admit that he 
is guilty of no small destruction amongst the spawn. 
The water-ouzel has another very peculiar habit, which I have 
never heard mentioned. In the coldest days of winter I have 
seen him alight on a quiet pool, and with out-stretched wings 
recline for a few moments on the water, uttering a most sweet 
and merry song—then rising into the air, he wheels round and 
round for a minute or two, repeating his song as he flies back 
to some accustomed stone. His notes are so pleasing, that he 
fully deserves a place in the list of our song-birds; though I 
never found but one other person, besides myself, who would own 
to having heard the water-ouzel sing. In the early spring, too, 
he courts his mate with the same harmony, and pursues her from 
bank to bank singing as loudly as he can—often have I stopped 
to listen to him as he flew to and fro along the burn, apparently 
full of business and importance—then pitching on a stone, he 
would look at me with such confidence, that, notwithstanding 
the bad name he has acquired with the fishermen, I never could 
make up my mind to shoot him. He frequents the rocky burns 
far up the mountains, building in the crevices of the rocks, and 
rearing his young in peace and security, amidst the most wild 
and magnificent scenery. 
The nest is large, and built, like a wren’s, with a roof—the 
eggs are a transparent white. 
The people here have an idea that the water-ouzel preys on 
small fish, but this is an erroneous idea; the bird is not adapted 
in any way either for catching fish or for swallowing them. 
During a severe frost last year, 1 watched for some time a 
common kingfisher, who, by some strange chance, and quite 
against its usual halfits, had strayed into this northern latitude. 
He first caught my eye while darting like a living emerald along 
