SUMMER RAMBLES ON THE SUREN DAL FJELDS. 107 
us close to a rocky islet, whereon we now landed, and, 
after twice walking round it among rough heather and 
scrub, I almost stepped upon a nesting sandpiper, which, 
with much outcry and solicitude, rose from her four 
eggs at my feet. For five or six yards she fluttered 
away; but, long before a shot could well be taken, 
dived from sight among the birch boughs and junipers, 
and when next seen was skimming on jerky pinions 
towards an adjacent island. Thither we followed, but 
she rose wild, and, with the same undulating flight, 
flew across the lake and beyond our view. This bird 
—visibly larger than a dunlin, which she otherwise 
resembled—was of a bright chestnut colour, each feather 
centred with black, showed a white bar across the wings, 
white below, and white feathers very conspicuous on 
either side of the tail. From the moment she rose 
under the gun-barrels I knew she was a Sanderling , 
though I do not ask other ornithologists to share that 
confidence. The four eggs lay in a mossy cup sur¬ 
rounded by moss, and overhung by heather, a few dead 
bleaberry leaves in the nest. We decided to leave the 
eggs for a few hours, to allow the old bird to resettle, 
and went meanwhile to explore other islets, especially 
in search of the big diver’s nest. We soon found one — 
a circular mound of moss, slightly raised, and with a 
distinct path to the water, ten feet distant. There were 
traces of moss having recently been gathered just above 
the nest; but it was empty. 
The next islet had a raised central ridge, along 
which I walked, to command either shore. Presently, 
on coming to a break in the ridge, I had the intense 
pleasure of observing a black-throated diver squatting 
