The Scottish Naturalist. 
16^5 
towards the moor, and see them stop every now and then to look 
back before re-seeking covert. 
On clearing the wood the music of the moorland falls on our ears. 
The Curlews are in splendid voice, and pour out their prolonged, 
rippling notes as they sail over the heather. The Cuckoo is con. 
stantly heard, and high in the sky, the Larks fill the air with me- 
lody, while below, numberless small birds — Twites, Meadow-Pipits, 
and others difficult to distinguish — spring from the ground at our 
feet, and perch on the heather stems to sing to us as we pass. "But 
the chmax of interest is reached at the loch side, when thousands 
of Black-headed Gulls rise from their nests in the reeds, and from 
the water : our eyes are fairly dazzled by the flashing and gleaming, 
and glancing of innumerable wings, and our ears deafened by the 
cries of the multitudinous hosts of these beautiful creatures float- 
ing and swooping in graceful curves around us. It is a curious 
sight to watch a Mallard startled from the rushes trying to steer 
a course through the maze of white wings. The sedate Coots 
and Moor-hens seem unmoved by the uproar, and swim about 
by the margin of the sedges unconcerned. A Pochard drake may 
be seen with his handsome red head, and back of powdery grey, 
swimming backwards and forwards near a tuft of rushes where the 
duck is sitting on her eggs. 
Two or three Shovellers dash past in swift erratic flight, the 
drakes being conspicuous at a long distance by the broad light 
band across the shoulders. The loch is rich in breeding ducks, 
no less than five varieties nest in its vicinity, among them the 
Tufted Duck, several pairs of which have remained, during the 
last few years, late into the summer. Their nest has, however, 
not yet been found, but this year a female accompanied by a 
young bird was seen on the 3rd of August. 
While we are watching the ducks, we notice a small bird with 
a golden-brown back moving about like a mouse at our feet — it is 
a Dunlin, whose nest is probably close by in the grass. 
We hear the plaintive whistle of a Golden Plover, and see him 
standing on the top of a bare knoll where the heather has been 
burnt. 
Redshanks with drooping wings fly round us, and add their 
shrill cries to the chorus of strange, wild music that floats about 
in the air, and which haunts the memory long after we have left 
