50 
NATURE NOTES. 
Can we, as naturalists, shut our eyes and suffer our friend to 
become a target for the loafing gunner ? The laws already en- 
acted are absolutely worthless, being not enforced to the extent 
that they should be, neither do they inflict any punishment on 
the ruffians and schoolboys who ransack our fields and hedge- 
rows daily in search of birds’ eggs, in the spring and summer 
months. If some influential personage would stand up on 
behalf of the birds, protest against the wanton cruelty and 
destruction now going on, and place the state of affairs before 
Parliament, we might get something done to shield our feathered 
favourites. Who will plead for the kingfisher ? 
I shall ever remember the first time I sighted a kingfisher, 
not because it was the last time, but because it came upon me 
so suddenly, and at a moment when I never dreamt of observing 
the bird which I had so long wished to see. It was a lovely 
summer’s day, some dozen years ago, when I strolled down to the 
little stream which ripples under the willow trees, and slowly 
meanders between the yellow flag-lilies, ere it empties its waters 
into the Conway. A reed-warbler was chattering on the oppo- 
site bank of the stream, but its notes were toned by the many 
sounds of summer which filled the air, when I was attracted by 
a shrill, but plaintive, cry, which appeared to be coming nearer 
and nearer to me as I listened and waited. Suddenly I caught 
a glimpse of a ruby and white breast, which shone in the raid- 
day sun, approaching, and in an instant the object, for which 
my soul had so long yearned, stood before me. Perching on a 
mossy stone, in the midst of the murmuring streamlet, was a 
kingfisher. Its graceful body, clothed in the most resplendent 
plumage, which defies the pen to describe, was reflected upon 
the water. For a moment it remained and in a moment it was 
gone! Never since that day have I observed those azure 
plumes, and, alas 1 I doubt very much whether I shall ever be 
able to welcome that king of birds back again. I have visited 
those fern-clad banks and mossy stones times without number 
since that cherished, yet painful, summer’s day, like one who 
pays a pilgrimage to the resting-place of some great departed. 
It all seemed like a fairy fancy — that faint chirp which had 
never before fallen on my ear, and the streak of light which fol- 
lowed it as it sped its arrowy course, like a meteor through the 
heavens, away over the reed-beds and green alder trees, will I 
never forget. Shortly afterwards I learnt, to my sorrow, that 
that type of beauty had crossed the path of some idle so-called 
sportsman, and had been placed in the hands of a local taxider- 
mist. 
I trust that the personal details given in this short article may 
be excused ; they are given solely with the view that they might 
catch the eye of some thoughtless individual who idly wastes his 
powder and shot over creatures that would be such a source of 
pleasure and gratification to those who delight in the wondrous 
and beautiful sights which Nature reveals to those who love her. 
A. T. Johnson. 
