62 
NATURE NOTES. 
hill, the plovers are crying. One of them is even now sweeping 
round it, describing the most beautiful curves imaginable, and 
uttering the while his keen, clear, unutterably melancholy cry. 
His mate is close at hand, either sitting on her spotted eggs or 
looking after the newly-hatched little ones. Probably she is 
sitting close to the earth, on the moist bog-soil, partly hidden 
amongst the coarse herbage, and entirely harmonising in colour 
with the grey stones, dark earth, and shades of grey and yellow 
which the bog vegetation assumes at the close of winter. 
To find a plover’s nest is a sufficiently difficult task to any but 
the forester, born and bred ; but it is simplicity itself when com- 
pared with the undertaking of discovering the young birds, whose 
power of hiding, within a few hours of being hatched, appears 
little short of miraculous to those unacquainted with the ways 
of wild things. In this they are largely aided by the old birds, 
who do everything in their power to create a diversion in favour 
of the young ones. 
You are walking quietly across the heather, towards the bog, 
stepping cautiously, as you approach its margin, from one tuft 
of rushes and grass to the other, to avoid sinking ankle deep in 
the soft, black, peat mud, which stains indelibly brown all it 
touches. Suddenly a sharp, mournful, whistling cry, just over 
head, makes you glance up, at the, imminent risk of collapsing 
into the swamp. A large green plover, apparently wounded in 
the wing, is hovering near you, flying with difficulty, and evi- 
dently in pain — for frequently it sinks to the earth, then with an 
effort rises again and flutters a little further, always in a circle, 
ever receding, ever near the ground, on to which it is clear that 
ere long it must sink for the last time. So close does the bird 
come that it seems as though one step nearer must enable you 
to grasp it ; as a matter of fact, that one step nearer probably 
lands you nearly up to your knees in bog-water and evil-smelling 
slime, whilst the bird, suddenly recovering complete use of its 
seemingly injured wing, silently disappears. 
The whole scene was a piece of consummate acting on the 
part of the bird, which had a nest, if not young ones, close at 
hand, and was trying by every ruse in its power to lead you 
away from the little patch of earth inhabited by its family. 
Hence the reason of those ever-receding circles in which it flew, 
and the counterfeiting of that crippled wing, the bird hoping, by 
those means, to rivet your attention upon itself till the little 
ones should have reached a place of safety. If you are an old 
hand you do not attempt to follow the parent bird, knowing that 
each step is taking you further from what you seek. You either 
go in the direction exactly opposite to that chosen by the old 
bird, or you stop short, carefully scanning every inch of ground 
around you. The excitement of the old bird then becomes in- 
tense ; it will sweep down so close to you as almost to brush 
against your clothes, screaming loudly the while, and continue 
so doing till either you have moved, or the young ones found 
shelter. 
