THE HAUNT OF THE RING-OUZEL. 405 



which had not had time to make a channel for themselves, water 

 spreading out into spongy places or disappearing suddenly under 

 ground, whence we still heard it trickling mysterious, like water 

 in a dream, and reappearing many feet lower down the mountain 

 slope. 



At first we seem to see no bird, except a little lonely Wren 

 who sings persistently, its voice rising shrill above the water-pipes. 

 And, crossing the mountain, Meadow Pipits had been our constant 

 companions ; but here, in the dingle, there seemed to be no bird 

 in the universe save that solitary Wren. 



Yes. After that patient waiting which all bird lovers know 

 so well, a Rock Dove, blue, smaller by many inches than our 

 familiar Wood Pigeon and of less swift flight, flew out from the 

 rocks by the waterfall and crossed the ravine. They build here 

 in community, and once a wanderer, who often rambles lonely 

 through these untrodden ways, caught one in his hand on its rude 

 nest on a ledge or rock — such was its ignorance, its sweet trustful- 

 ness. And as he let it go into the sunlight he saw the sheen of 

 iridescent green on its lustrous breast, and remembered that 

 centuries ago the Dove's feathers of " pale-green gold " had been 

 noticed, and perhaps loved, under far-away skies. 



Then the Wheatears appeared from we knew not where, flitting 

 restlessly from rock to rock, and uttering a soft and sweet call- 

 note. Their song, sung so often to the listening waste alone, we 

 did not hear ; but we found a nest. For as we went up a little 

 sheep track a bird slipped out from under a great slab of rock 

 and flew up the dingle, showing no further anxiety for its treasures. 

 And there, far under the stone as arm could reach, in darkness 

 and in damp, was the warm nest and four eggs of faded blue. 



Soon the Ring-Ouzels began to show themselves, but the eye 

 so loses itself on these wide still wastes, amid the spacious sim- 

 plicity of great sky and great mountain, that it is difficult at first 

 to follow these little specks of flitting life or to mark them with 

 our field glasses. And, if the truth must be told, in the hours 

 spent among them we added little or nothing to the information 

 with which our books provided us. The birds would not come 

 anear or suffer us to come near them. They kept indeed a 

 suspicious eye upon us, flitting in the direction in which we 

 walked, perching on heather or slab of rock to watch our move- 



