THE FLIGHT OF THE MERLIN 165 
merlin are nothing. There I think I see him as he 
goes dashing over the woods. The still pool, 
overgrown in parts with rushes and reeds, and 
shadowed by thick firs, brightening under the 
morning beams that shoot slantingly over the 
hollow in which it lies. The water hen moves 
merrily along, jerking up its white patched tail, as 
it leads its sooty brood to the sedgy thicket, the 
mallards are muddling and spluttering by the edge 
of the swamp, and a single heron stands on a little 
rocky isle, on a single leg, with indrawn neck and 
yellow bill directed forwards. Is there nothing 
else? Yes, the merlin skims over the pool; a 
sandpiper flies off and is pursued; the gallinules 
scramble among the reeds, the ducks splash in the 
water, and the heron lets down his leg and places 
himself in an attitude of observation. But the 
chase is over; the merlin flies off with his prey. 
Had I the “telescopic eye” of a kite I might see 
him advancing over the Cairn Hill. Here he 
comes; we can now see him without glasses. 
You may imagine, good reader, that you hear a 
shot, that the merlin comes to the ground, that 
thereupon the curtain falls, the “ whaups on the 
hill scream, and the company disperses. 
