The Peak 
of Derbyshire. 
(188) 
THE BIRD WORLD. 
The Peak of Derbyshire 
Some Notes on its Bird Life. 
The Peak of Derbyshire is one of dear 
old England’s most lovely rural haunts. 
It is beloved by both bird and man, and 
in a most interesting article in the “ Not¬ 
tingham Express,” Mr. W. A. J. Smed- 
ley writes of a “ Summer in Peakland.” 
He says:— 
“ ’Tis good for tired city folk longing 
for the restfulness of wide spaces and 
the healing touch of nature to go out into 
the wild country side, for it is at all 
times grand and impressive. Hitherto 
the summer has made itself famous in 
the history of meteorology. Many a day 
the landscapes have been blotted out by 
driving rain or cloudy sky, the penalty 
of all islands where the mutable Atlantic 
sweeps the shores. Memories of golden 
sunshine, of gentle breezes tempering the 
noontide, of deep flushed sunsets breath¬ 
ing tenderly over stream and woodland, 
have been few and far between. I was 
fortunate enough to secure a fine day. 
A broad sea of wheat lay before me just 
beginning to tinge with the ruddy colour 
that makes it look richer than gold. A few 
days ago a high wind that blew up a 
thunder cloud, swept it to and fro like 
the sea when it cannot rest, but to-day 
it is as tranquil as a lake; not a ripple 
disturbs its surface. The taller wild 
oat, always so slight and graceful, which 
shivers at the slightest wind, seems 
quietly sleeping; it is so calm and peace¬ 
ful. The field convolvulus is twining 
refund the cornstalk, too tenaciously to 
be pleasant, but, at the same time, turns 
its delicately varied flowers wide open to 
the sun. The glorious blend of colours 
is enchanting. There is the blue corn¬ 
flower, the yellow kedlock, 
The Scarlet Topples 
on their hairy stems, with little hearts¬ 
ease at their feet, and blue-eyed forget- 
me-nots struggling to get a peep at the 
sun. The air is filled with the perfume 
of wild mint, and the scented burden of 
the hay-wagon as it trails along, for the 
harvest is late this year. The hedgerows 
have lost their snowy mantle of haw¬ 
thorn, but are now robed with the deli¬ 
cate pink-and-cream of wild roses, the 
queen of flowers. The birds sing less 
now; the household cares and worries 
of spring time are over; their progeny 
have finished their education under the 
paternal roof, and the country is full of 
them. Though for the most part the 
birds have ceased to sing, you may occa- 
sionly hear the Skylark, that built its 
nest between the drills in the month of 
sunshine and showers, when the corn was 
fresh and green. The Robin maintains 
his Mark Tapley character throughout 
the year, always merry under all circum¬ 
stances. Now and again a Thrush sud¬ 
denly appears out of the blue horizon 
and settles on a tree to warily survey the 
situation, then spreads his wings and 
descends gracefully into the golden corn 
or takes an excursion to a neighbouring 
stream to drink. There, in the cool 
shade, the air sweet and pure, by the 
watercourse, not a sound disturbs the 
peaceful calm except the droning of in¬ 
sects, which is really a delightful lullaby. 
The Farmer and. the Sparrows. 
A Pheasant passes leisurely into the 
forest of wheat; the rich colours of his 
plumage bespeak his eastern origin, and 
is in striking contrast to the more sombre 
costumes worn by the ladies of his 
harem. There were evident traces in 
the hedgerow bank and the turnip field 
hard by that they had been enjoying a 
dust bath previous to partaking of their 
evening meal. Some Finches, in com¬ 
pany with their cousins the Sparrows, 
flit across the path from the corn to the 
hedgrow; as they fly backwards and for¬ 
wards the music of their wings is like 
the humming of a wheel. The chaff 
strewn about the hedge and near the path 
bears circumstantial evidence that they 
have had a fair share of the ripening 
corn, whose slender stem bends almost 
