A GARDEN OF N ERE US 
169 
part is the cause of all this, but looking skywards I discover a 
sparrow-hawk hovering silently over the thorn bush, and within 
twenty yards of my resting place, and then I know that he and 
not myself is answerable for the disturbance amongst the feather 
and fur of the island. 
I am scarcely able to distinguish the warblers from the 
foliage of the bush, for they are making themselves as invisible 
as possible by crouching in the thickest part of the leaves. Ah! 
the quick eyes of the hawk have sighted me, and with a swift 
downward swoop, as though about to strike the scared little 
birds on their perch, he flies off ; but before he has gone very 
far quite a flock of small birds, including the reed- warblers, are 
following in his wake shrieking out their cries of hatred as 
they go. Apparently heedless of the rabble, the sparrow-hawk 
continues on his swift flight in a “catch me who can” sort of 
manner, and pursuers and pursued are soon lost to sight behind 
a line of tall willows as they cross the main river. I must 
depart also, for the wind grows chill and the sinking of the 
fiery red sun behind the grand stand of Hurst Park racecourse 
heralds in the advent of night, and if that weather prophet, the 
shepherd, is to be believed, it will be fine to-morrow. 
M. Burton-Durham. 
A GARDEN OF NEREUS. 
ST August we were fortunate enough to be able to 
watch some of the children of Nereus in their natural 
habitat. 
We were in the neighbourhood of Scott’s “ Bride 
of Lammermuir,” walking by the sea margin, where the Kelpies’ 
Flow is still evident by its quicksands. Away in the distance, 
jutting out into the sea, Wolf’s Crag stood out in relief against 
the clear summer sky. From a sandy cove close by the Kelpies’ 
Flow we clambered over rough bare rocks, up to the beautiful 
verdure-covered cliffs, looking on to the sea. Along a sheep 
track we made our way, with the shore-line lying below us 
during our walk. The tide was low and showed shaley red 
rocks, lying like rows of fallen giants, in horizontal lines of 
great regularity, over which the white-lipped waves were 
pleasantly and rhythmically lapping. At Siccar Point, where 
the cliffs project seaward in a great wall of rock, we left the 
grassy pathway and scrambled down to the sea. Under the 
cliffs we found a large roomy cave, reputed to have been used 
by smugglers in days gone by, which, although easily acces- 
sible and quite dry at low tide, has the sea for its floor and 
its walls hammered by the surf during the spring tides. In 
this cave numbers of martins had built their nests of brick- 
coloured mud, made from the red sandstone. Pretty little 
