THE SANDPIPERS

“Well, I don’t know,” said Gwenny. “I don’t much mind staying in bed, especially in an east wind, because then Aunt Charlotte stops at home, and can’t——”

“Never mind Aunt Charlotte,” said the Martin. “She’ll be here directly, and you mustn’t say unkind things of her. I can feel with her, poor thing, if she lives on snails like the thrushes, and can’t catch them in an east wind.”

Gwenny was about to explain, but the Martin said “Hush!” and went on with his tale, for he was aware that it was getting rather long, and that Aunt Charlotte might be expected at any moment.

“At last the east wind went, and then for a while we had better luck. Rain fell, and the roads became muddy, and we set to work to rebuild our nest. For you must know that it was one of our bits of bad luck this year that our dear old nest had been quite destroyed when we returned, and instead of creeping into it to roost during that terrible east wind, as we like to do, we had to find some other hole or cornerto shelter us. You see your home is our home too; and how would you like to have to sleep in the tool-house, or under the gooseberry bushes in the garden?”

“I should love to sleep in the tool-house,” said Gwenny, “at least, if I could have my bed in there. But I didn’t know you slept in your old nests, nor did father, I am sure, or he would have taken care of them when the workmen were here painting the window-frames and the timbers under the roof.”

“I thought that was how it was done,” said the Martin; “they like to make everything spick and span, and of course our nests look untidy. Well, it can’t be helped; but it was bad luck for us. We went to work all the same, gathering up the mud in our bills, and laid a fresh foundation, mixing it with a little grass or straw to keep it firm.”

“Like the Israelites when they had to make bricks!” cried Gwenny.

“Just so,” said the Martin, though he did not quite understand. “And all was going on nicely, and my wife up there was quite in ahurry to lay her eggs, and we were working like bees, when out came the sun, and shone day after day without a cloud to hide him, and all the moisture dried up in the roads, and our foundations cracked and crumbled, because we could get no fresh mud to finish the work with. We made long journeys to the pond in the next village and to the river bank, but it was soon all no good; the mud dried in our very mouths and would not stick, and before long there was nothing soft even on the edge of pond or river—nothing but hard-baked clay, split into great slits by the heat.”

“Why, we could have watered the road for you, if we had known,” said Gwenny.

“Yes, my dear, to be sure; but then you never do know, you see. We know a good deal about you, living as we do on your houses; we know when you get up (and very late it is) and when you go to bed, and a great deal more that you would never expect us to know; but you know very little about us, or I should not be telling you this long story. Of course you might know, if you thought it worth while; butvery few of you take an interest in us, and I’m sure I don’t wonder.”

“Why don’t you wonder?” asked Gwenny.

“Because we are not good to eat,” said the Martin decisively. “Don’t argue,” he added, as he saw that she was going to speak: “think it over, and you’ll find it true. I must get on. Well, we waited patiently, though we were very sad, and at last came the rain, and we finished the nest. Ah! how delicious the rain is after a drought! You stay indoors, poor things, and grumble, and flatten your noses against the nursery windows. We think it delightful, and watch the thirsty plants drinking it in, and the grass growing greener every minute; it cools and refreshes us, and sweetens our tempers, and makes us chatter with delight as we catch the juicy insects low under the trees, and fills us with fresh hope and happiness. Yes, we had a few happy days then, though we little knew what was coming. An egg was laid, and my wife nestled on it, and I caught flies and fed her,—and soon another egg was laid, and then,—then came the worst of all.”

The Martin paused and seemed hardly able to go on, and Gwenny was silent out of respect for his feelings. At last he resumed.

“One afternoon, when the morning’s feeding was over, I flew off, so joyful did I feel, and coursed up and down over meadow and river in the sunshine, till the lengthening shadows warned me that my wife would be getting hungry again. I sped home at my quickest pace, and flew straight to the nest. If I had not been in such a hurry I might have noticed a long straw sticking out of it, and then I should have been prepared for what was coming; but I was taken by surprise, and I never shall forget that moment. I clung as usual to the nest, and put my head in before entering. It was a piteous sight I saw! My wife was not there; the eggs were gone; and half a dozen coarse white feathers from the poultry yard told me what had happened. Before I had time to realise it, I heard a loud fierce chatter behind me, felt a punch from a powerful bill in my back, which knocked me clean off the nest, and as I flew screamingaway, I saw a great coarse dirty sparrow, with a long straw in his ugly beak, go into the nest just as if it were his own property. And indeed it now was his property, by right of wicked force and idle selfishness; for as long as I continued to hover round, he sat there looking out, his cruel eyes watching me in triumph. I knew it was no good for me to try and turn him out, for I should never have lived to tell you the story. Look at my bill! it’s not meant to fight with, nor are my claws either. We don’t wish to fight with any one; we do no one any harm. Why should we be bullied and persecuted by these fat vulgar creatures, who are too lazy to build nests for themselves? Up there at the farm-house they have turned every one of us out of house and home, and I daresay that next year we shall have to give up your snug house too. You could prevent it if you liked, but you take no notice, and you think us always happy!”

This was too much for poor Gwenny, and the tears began to fall. “No, no,” she implored, “youshallcome here again, youmustcome herenext year! I’ll tell father, and I know he’ll protect you. We’ll do all we can if you’ll only promise to come again and have a better summer next year—I’ll promise, if you’ll promise.”

“Dear child, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” said the Martin. “It’s all right now, so dry your eyes. We built another nest, and there it is over your head. But it’s very late in the season, and if the cold sets in early my little ones will have hard work to keep alive. In any case they will be late in their journey south, and may meet with many trials and hardships. But we must hope for the best, and if you’ll do your best to keep your promise, I’ll do my best to keep mine. Now we are friends, and must try not to forget each other. As I said, this is your home and mine too. Often and often have I thought of it when far away in other lands. This year I thought I should have hardly one pleasant recollection to carry with me to the south, but now I shall have you to think of, and your promise! And I will come back again in April, if all is well, and shall hope to see youagain, and your father and mother, and Aunt Charlotte, and the sn——”

“Gwenny, Gwenny!” said a well-known voice; “my dear child, fast asleep out of doors, and evening coming on! It’s getting cold, and you’ll have another chill, and drive us all to distraction. Run to the kitchen and make the kettle boil, and you can warm yourself there before the fire.”

“I’m not cold, Aunt Charlotte, and I’m not asleep,” said Gwenny, stretching herself and getting up. “And, please, no boiling water to-day! It’s fairyland in the garden to-day, and I really can’t have the creatures killed, I really can’t!”

“Can’twhat!” cried Aunt Charlotte, lifting the pan in one hand and the garden scissors in the other, in sheer amazement. “Well, what are we coming to next, I wonder! Fairyland! Is the child bewitched?”

But at that moment the Martin, who had left his perch, flew so close to Aunt Charlotte’s ear that she turned round startled; and catching sight at that moment of the carriage comingdown the lane, hastened to open the gate and welcome Gwenny’s father and mother.

Gwenny looked up at the Martin’s nest and nodded her thanks; and then she too ran to the gate, and seizing her father with both hands, danced him down the garden, and told him she had made a promise, which he must help her to keep. It was an hour before they came in again, looking as if they had greatly enjoyed themselves. Aunt Charlotte had gone home again, and the snails were left in peace. And as the Martin flew out of his nest, and saw Gwenny and her father watching him, he knew that the promise would be kept.

Fresh and sweet from its many springs among the moors, where the Curlew and the Golden Plover were nesting, the river came swiftly down under the steep slopes of the hills; pausing here and there in a deep, dark pool under the trees, into which the angler would wade silently to throw his fly to the opposite bank, and then hurrying on for a while in a rapid flow of constant cheerful talk. Then making for the other side of its valley, it quieted down again in another deep pool of still water: and, as the valley opened out, it too spread itself out over a pebbly bed, welcoming here another stream that rushed down from the hills to the west.

Just here, where winter floods had left a wide space of stones and rubbish between the water and the fields, and before the river gathered itselftogether again for a swift rush into another pool, a pair of Sandpipers had made their scanty nest and brought up their young in safety for two years running. And here they were again, this last June, safely returned from all the perils of travel, and glorying in a nestful of four large and beautiful eggs of cream colour spotted with reddish-brown blotches. The nest was out of reach even of the highest flood, but within hearing of the river’s pleasant chat: for without that in their ears the old birds could not have done their work, nor the young ones have learnt the art of living. It was placed among the bracken under an old thorn-bush, on the brink of a miniature little precipice some four feet high, the work of some great flood that had eaten out the shaly soil.

The Sandpipers felt no fear, for there was no village at hand, and hardly a boy to hunt for nests: the fishermen kept to the bank of the river or waded in it, and only glanced for a moment in admiration at the graceful figure of the male bird, as he stood bowing on a stone in mid-stream, gently moving body and tail up and down in rhythmical greeting to the water that swirled around him, and piping his musical message to the wife sitting on her eggs near at hand.

The Sandpipers.

The Sandpipers.

One day when he was thus occupied, before making a fresh search for food for her, an answering pipe from the nest called him to her side. He guessed what it was, for hatching time was close at hand. When he reached the nest, he found that inside the first egg that had been laid a tiny echo of his own clear pipe was to be heard. Whether you or I could have heard it I cannot say; but to the keen ears of the parents it was audible enough, and made their hearts glow with the most delightful visions of the future. And this hidden chick was wonderfully lively and talkative, more so than any chick of theirs had been before he came out into the world. It was quite unusual for a Sandpiper, and both the parents looked a little serious. Nor was their anxiety allayed when the egg-shell broke, and a little black eye peered out full of life and mischief.

Then out came a head and neck, and then asticky morsel of a mottled brown body, which almost at once got its legs out of the shell, and began to struggle out of the nest. Was ever such a thing known before? The old birds knew not whether to laugh or cry, but they hustled him back into the nest in double quick time, and made him lie down till the sun and air should have dried him up a little. Hard work the mother had of it for the next day or two to keep that little adventurer under her wing while the other eggs were being hatched. When he was hungry he would lie quiet under her wing; but no sooner had his father come with food for him than he would utter his little pipe and struggle up for another peep into the wide world. Terrible stories his mother told him of infant Sandpipers who had come to untimely ends from disobeying their parents.

One, she told him, had made off by himself one day while his mother was attending to his brothers and sisters, and before he had gone many yards along the pleasant green sward, a long red creature with horrible teeth and a tuft to his tail, had come creeping, creeping, throughthe grass, and suddenly jumped upon him. His mother heard his cries, and flew piping loudly to the spot; but it was too late, and she had to watch the cruel stoat bite off his head and suck his blood. Another made off towards the water and was crushed under foot by an angler who was backing from the river to land a fish, and never even knew what he had done. Another fell into a deep hole at nightfall and could not get out again, and was found starved and dead when morning came.

After each of these stories the little bird shuddered and crouched under his mother’s wing again: but the mastering desire to see the world always came back upon him, and great was the relief of the parents when the other eggs were hatched and education could begin. Then the nest was soon abandoned, and the little creatures trotted about with their mother; for they are not like the ugly nestlings that lie helpless and featherless in their nests for days and days, as human babies lie in their cradles for months. Life, and manners, and strength, and beauty, come almost at once on the young Sandpipers,as on the young pheasants and partridges and chickens. And their education is very easy, for they seem to know a good deal already about the things of the world into which they have only just begun to peep.

So one lovely day in June the whole family set out for the bank of the river, the young ones eager to learn, and the old ones only too anxious to teach. For what they had to learn was not merely how to find their food—that they would soon enough discover for themselves—but what to do in case of danger; and as they tripped along, the mother in her delicate grey dress, white below with darker throat and breast, and the young ones in mottled grey and brown, so that you could hardly tell them among the pebbles and their shadows, she gave them their first lesson, while the father flew down the river and back again to exercise his wings and to look for food.

They had not gone far when suddenly their mother cried “wheet whee-t” with an accent they already knew, and flew away from them, calling loudly as she went. The little ones,unable to fly, did the first thing that came into their heads (and it seemed to come into all their little heads at one moment), and dropped down among the pebbles motionless, with eyes shut. There they stayed some time, and the eldest, getting tired of this, at last opened a bright black eye, and turned it upwards. There, far up above them, hovering with poised wings, was a Kestrel clearly marked against the sky. The little black eye closed again, and there they waited without moving till at last the mother returned.

“Well done, my dears,” she said, “that was a good beginning; there was no great danger, for the Kestrel would hardly be looking for you among these stones; but do that as you did it then whenever I make that call to you; drop exactly where you may be, and shut your eyes. All together and side by side, if you are together when I call; and when I fly round above you, still calling, creep into any holes you see, or under a stone or a tuft of grass, and wait there till I come again. Now the hawk has gone, so we may go on to the water.”

There was no need to bid them go; had notthe noise of that water been in their ears ever since they broke their shells, telling them all the secrets of their life? And had not their mother told them wonderful things of it—of the food about its banks, and on its stones, and in its shallows, the cool refreshing air that breathes from it, the lights and shadows that play on it, and above all, the endless music without which a Sandpiper could hardly live?

“You cannot fly yet,” she told them, “but we will go to the water’s edge, and then your father and I will show you how to enjoy it.” And as just then it came in sight, she opened her wings and flew out on it piping, while the little ones opened their wings too in vain, and hurried on to the edge, and watched her as she alit on a stone, and bowed gracefully to the dancing water. And they too bowed their tiny bodies and felt the deliciousness of living.

All that livelong day, a day no one of them ever forgot, they spent by the river side, dabbling their little dark-green legs in the water when an eddy sent it gently up to them, learning to find the sweetest and wholesomest insects lurkingamong the pebbles, with now and then a little worm, or caterpillar that had fallen from the bushes above: watching the trout turning up their golden sides in the dark water of the pool as they rose to the flies: practising their voices in a feeble piping, and always moving bodies and tails as they saw their parents do it.

They had very few alarms, but quite enough for practice in hiding. Once as they were following their mother by the very edge of the deep pool, a huge silver creature, flashing in the sunlight, leapt clean out of the water and fell in again with a splash. The little ones all dropped to ground and lay silent, but their mother never uttered a note, and they soon got up again. She told them it was only a salmon, who could not possibly do them any harm, and would not if he could; that she and their father were good friends with the salmon, and often sat on the big boulder under which he loved to lie; but that it was only a bowing acquaintance, because the salmon could not talk their language.

Once or twice an angler came along slowly, and then they had to drop while their parentsflew up and down stream loudly calling; but there was always plenty of time for them to get into holes and corners safely, and the anglers passed on again without noticing either young or old. At last the light began to fade, the young ones were tired and sleepy—even the eldest, who had distinguished himself by trying to fly, and actually getting out on a stone half a foot from the shore, where he stood bowing with great pride till his father came and shoved him into the water to scramble ashore in a fright—and so this delightful day came to an end, and they all went back to the shelter where the nest was placed.

The next day was a Sunday, and they spent half the morning in great happiness without seeing a single fisherman. But after all they were to learn this day that life has its troubles: for a huge heron took it into his head to fish while human beings could not, and alighted at the water’s edge within a dozen yards of the spot where they were already motionless in obedience to their mother’s signal pipe. And there the great bird kept standing on one legfor a full hour, and would not move a muscle, except when now and then he darted his long bill into the water, and then heaved it up into the air with a trout struggling at the end of it. At last, as his back was turned to them, their parents whistled them away, and they crept back to the nest in deep disappointment.

“Why should we be afraid of that creature?” asked the eldest: “he eats fish, not Sandpipers.”

“Let him see you, my child,” said the father, “and he’ll snap you up with that long bill of his as quick as a trout can snap a fly. There was a wild duck up the stream which had a nice little family just learning to swim, when down came a heron before they could hide themselves—and indeed they can’t hide themselves so well, poor things, as you have learnt to—and he just took those ducklings one after another, and made such a good meal of them that he went away without stopping to fish, and the poor parents had to make another nest and go through their work all over again.”

So they had to stop at home while the heronwas there, and it was past midday when at last he flew away. Then out they came again, and were making their way with glad hearts down to the water, when the warning “wheet-whee-et” was heard very loud indeed. Down they all went, in a row together, on the bit of shaly bank where they were running at the moment. And now they knew that there was indeed danger; for the old birds flew piping wildly up and down as they had never yet heard them, and close by they could hear some great creature trampling about all around, and searching every bit of stone and grass and bush. Once they felt its shadow come over them, and could hear it breathing within a yard or two of them. Then it went away, letting the sun come on them again; but their parents kept up their wild piping, and they knew that the danger was still there. Then more searching and shuffling and routing, and once more the shadow came upon them, and the footsteps crunched the shale on which they lay. And now, as ill-luck would have it, the eldest opened one black eye and looked out of the corner of it. In another moment he felt himself seizedin a mighty grasp, but not ungently, and lifted high into the air, while in wildest consternation the old birds flew close around him.

It was a terrible moment, but the little bird was plucky, and something in the way he was held told him that he was not going to be eaten. He opened both eyes, and saw one of those human anglers, without his rod. The great animal handled him gently, stroked his plumage, and looked him all over, and then put him softly down beside his brothers and sisters, who were still motionless but palpitating. He stood there for a minute or two gazing at them, no doubt in wonder and admiration, and then hastened away towards the farmhouse under the hill. The little birds began to move again.

“Whisht, wheet, wheet,” cried their mother; “it’s not all over yet. He wouldn’t have gone so fast if he hadn’t meant to come back again. Get into holes and corners, quick!”

“I don’t mind if he does come back again,” said the eldest. “He didn’t hurt me. His great claw was warm and comfortable, and he stroked my down the right way. I looked up and sawhis great eye: it was like the salmon’s, only pleasanter.”

“Holes and corners, quick, quick, quick, wheet, whee-et,” cried both parents again in dismay at the folly of their eldest; and all four crept up the shaly ledge and hid themselves under tufts of grass and bits of stick. It was none too soon, for the footsteps were now heard again, and the creaking of a gate as the angler got over it. And this time he was not alone; another human creature was with him. They came up to the spot, glanced at the frightened parents with admiration, and then looked for the young ones.

“Well, this is provoking,” said the one who had been there before; “if they haven’t gone and hid themselves away! Here have I dragged you from your comfortable pipe for nothing at all! They’re not far off, though, or the old birds would not be here.” And stooping down, he examined the ground carefully.

At that moment that perverse eldest chick, conscious that his right leg was sticking out into the sunshine, instinctively drew it in under him,and doing so, he again caught the angler’s eye. And he had to be pulled out of his hiding-place with rather more force than he liked. The angler put him into his friend’s hands, and for a moment the audacious chick was frightened. But he was soon down in his cover again safe and sound; and then the rest were found and admired, and the big creatures turned to go away.

“Wait a minute, though,” said the angler, pausing; “let us sit down a bit and see what they will do. My dears,” (addressing the old birds,) “you must put up with a little more anxiety, and then you shall be happy for ever afterwards, if you can.” So the two human beings sat down on the stones and watched, while the old birds flew round piping, perching here and there and bowing, and giving them such pictures of grace and beauty as they were not likely soon to see again. And neither of them can ever forget the charm of that quarter of an hour; the music of the river, the fragrance of the scented fern, the outlines of the rocky hills against the sky, and the gentle grace of the pairof little grey fairies that flew around them piping, less timid now that they saw no chance of harm to their brood.

At last, urged by some signal from the parents, the little birds all came out of their holes and corners, and trotted along one after another, the eldest leading, right under the very eyes of the two men. Piping faintly as if to call attention to their beauty, and moving tails and bodies like their parents, they passed along the shaly bank till they reached the roots of an old battered thorn-bush, where they disappeared into a hole and were seen no more by the human eyes.

After this adventure the old Sandpipers had a long talk. All had gone well so far; but it would not do to run these risks any longer if they could help it. And not without some misgivings as to the difficulty of the task, they determined to get the young ones across the river without delay; for on the further side some jutting rocks made it impossible for anglers to pass, and they were seldom seen there.

So next morning at break of day the little family was called down to the water’s edge,and told that they must do exactly as they were bid, and not be frightened. The father crouched down among the pebbles, and the mother bade the eldest chick mount upon his back, and stick his three long toes, whose claws were already beginning to get strong, fast into the soft and yielding plumage. This he did in a moment, and the next one found him shooting across the narrow head of the pool, with its rush of tumbled water, and landed safely at the foot of the rock. It was a delightful sensation, and as the father opened his wings and sped back again to fetch the others, the little one opened his too, and felt almost as if he could do it by himself. Then one after another the three younger ones were carried over, piping faintly from fear, and clinging for their lives to their perilous perch. And lastly came the mother with kind words of praise for all, and they set out to enjoy themselves for a whole long day of peace and plenty.

And indeed in peace and plenty they passed many days without further troubles or adventures, while the little wings began to put outtheir quill feathers, and the little voices to gain in strength and tone. And all this time the sun shone and the river sang a quiet song, as it slowly sank for want of rain, leaving new and varied margins of sand and pebbles for the Sandpipers to search for food.

But one morning the sun did not greet them as usual with his warmth; the sky was grey and streaky, and seemed to hang lower over the hills than when it was all clear blue. At first all was still and silent, but presently a gust of wind came up the river, and then another as suddenly came down, worrying the early angler on the opposite bank, and teasing the little Sandpipers as it blew their soft plumage the wrong way. And then a large white bird sailed gracefully up the valley, balancing itself against the wind, to the great admiration of the chicks.

“That is a Seagull, children,” said the mother, “and you will see plenty of them when you cross the sea to the warm southern lands for the winter. And he is telling us that there is a storm coming—listen!”

And they listened to the melancholy wail of the great bird, but felt no fear of him, for the parent birds showed none. But the old ones knew the meaning of that sad music, and thought of the weary waste of sea over which they would soon have to pass, and the sudden squall at night, and the loss of old friends and comrades.

Before the morning was out the storm began in earnest, and the chicks, after enjoying the first soothing rain for a while, were hustled under the shelter of the big rock, and crept into a hole to leeward. The eldest of course was the last to go in; for as a sudden strong gust swept past him, he opened his growing wings, and to his great delight found himself carried off his legs and almost flying. But the watchful father had seen him, and in a moment was ahead of him, just as he was being carried out upon the stream.

“Back into the hole!” he called with real anger; “look at the river! Even if you could use those wings as you think you can, it would be unsafe for you in wind and flood.” And the little bird looked at the water, and saw that itwas coming much faster than he had ever seen it, and its voice was deeper and hoarser; for far away up on the hills the great storm was already travelling round and round, and the growling of its thunder mixed ominously with the deepening tone of the river. So he crept into the hole and lay down by the others; and they all listened to the fearful splashing of the rain, and the scream of the tearing gusts, and the sighing of the trees on the hill above them. From time to time the old birds went out to get food for themselves and the young, and perhaps, too, to enjoy the freshening moisture, and the towzling worry of the wind, as old birds can and may after a long calm and drought. It might have been wiser if one of them had stayed at home; but the young ones were quiet and overawed, and, what was more, they were hungry.

During one of these absences the violence of the storm seemed to abate a little, and the flashes of sudden fire which had been making them shut their eyes came now but very faintly. It was getting towards evening, and the restlesseldest chick wanted badly to be out again, and all the more because he heard the roar of the river below him, and could hear its waves leaping and splashing on the rocky promontory in the side of which they were sheltered. So, without saying a word to the rest, he got up and went out of the hole on to a little ledge of rock which overhung the water.

What a sight it was! Dark-brown water rushing madly down into the pool, carrying with it logs and branches of trees with all the glory of fresh foliage wasted, and then the pool itself no longer golden-brown and clear, but black as ink, and flecked with creamy patches of surf. But the wind seemed lighter, and there were the Sandmartins, who had their nests in the cliff, flitting up and down just over the water as if nothing had happened, and there too was the friendly Grey Wagtail, with his long tail going up and down just the same as ever. Feeling that he might safely see more still, that adventurous young bird trotted round the corner of the ledge.

In a twinkling the wind had carried him offhis feet, and he was flying—really flying for the first time in his life. He needed no teaching in the art—whether he would or no, fly he must. Those growing quills were big enough to carry him along with the wind, and he had only to guide himself as well as he could. It was glorious, and he felt no terror, for there was no time to feel it. Over the black pool, past the foot-bridge, over which he shot like one of the Sandmartins which he had so often watched with envy and admiration; over the ford, now impassable, and then, as the river made a sharp curve, over field and hedge to the roaring flood again where it turned once more in the wind’s direction. But those weak wings were getting tired, and piping loudly for help, he looked for some safe place to drop upon.

Suddenly the wind fell for an instant, and a puff from the opposite direction brought him to. He was over the very middle of the river: a great boulder, water-splashed, lay just under him. How he managed it I cannot tell, but he dropped exhausted on the rough damp surfaceof the stone, and felt himself safe at last.

Safe! for the moment perhaps, but what was to become of him? The water was surging and roaring against his boulder: was it going to rise upon him and carry him away helpless? The wind was so strong that to fly up stream was hopeless, and as he sat there exhausted, he felt that he could not even use his wings to get to shore. Uttering from time to time a plaintive “wheet,” he clung to the stone with all his might, balancing himself with body and tail against the gusts: not reflecting, nor despairing, but just wondering what would happen.

The Sandmartins shot by overhead, but not one of them seemed to notice him, or to be the least inclined to perch on his stone. A Dipper came slowly up stream against the wind, perched on another stone not far off, bowed repeatedly and went on again. A Grey Wagtail coming down stream in graceful waves of flight, poised himself over the stone, and for a moment actually alighted on it: then, seeing his mate pass down after him, opened his wings and was gone. TheSandpiper opened his too, but his heart sank within him, and he clung still more passionately to his stone.

Two figures came rapidly up the river-bank,—two drenched human creatures, fighting against the wind, but enjoying it. Just as they came level with the boulder they caught the sound of a faint “whee-et.” The angler turned sharp round, and after some search with a fieldglass, discovered the little brown object on the boulder.

“It’s a young one,” he said to his companion: “it’s a veritable infant! And see, it can’t fly,—it’s clutching at the stone like grim death! By all that’s feathered, it must be one of our young friends blown away, for there’s no brood between them and this, and the wind’s been down stream pretty well all day. I say, we must have him off that somehow.” They looked at each other and at the swollen river.

“I’ll go,” said the friend the next moment: “I’m taller and stronger. I should rather like a towzle, but it won’t be easy. I can’t try it from above, or I shall come with a bang on the stone:but there are the stepping-stones just below. I can get out there if I can see them through the flood, and then I sha’n’t have above twenty yards to swim.”

While he said this he was pulling off his clothes, and then he leapt exuberantly down the bank to the water. Suddenly he stopped. “How am I to bring him back?” he shouted.

The angler was puzzled. To swim in a current like that with a bird in your hand was impossible without crushing it; and a naked man has no pockets. But necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as thought he whipped a casting-line off his hat, taking two flies off it and sticking them into his coat: this he wound round his friend’s wrist, and making the end fast, told him to tie it round the bird’s leg if he reached him.

Carefully into the water his companion descended, feeling with his hand for the first stepping-stone; then balancing himself between this and the rushing water, he went on to the second. It was teasing work, but he managed the third, the fourth, the fifth, and then it washigh time to swim, for the water was up to his middle and higher, and swayed him to and fro in a way that made the angler watch him eagerly. Then came a splash and a plunge, and his head was seen working up against the current, zigzagging to diminish the force of it. Twenty yards is a long way in such a stream, but if he could once get under the lee of that great boulder he would do. And in something like five minutes he was under the stone, and then on it.

A strange sight it was to see a naked human creature sitting cross-legged on a boulder in such a flood! But he has caught the truant, and now he is tying that handy gut line round his leg. And then, standing up on the boulder, he flings the bird shorewards, one end of the line being still fast round his wrist.

The bird sank on the water, and the man plunged in; fighting with the current that was sweeping him down, he made for the shore, and reached it breathless far below the stepping-stones, where the angler pulled him out of the water as joyfully as he ever pulled atrout. Then they wound up the line, and sure enough there came ashore at the end of it, a draggled, exhausted, and almost lifeless Sandpiper.

To be carried in a human pocket is not pleasant for a bird, but our young scapegrace was too far gone to trouble himself about it. At his birthplace he was taken out, and there the angler stayed with him, sending his companion home to change. It was getting dark fast, but the old birds were still flying wildly up and down the river, piping loudly in a forlorn hope of finding their young one ere night should wrap the river in darkness. The angler put him down near the water and waited at a little distance.

Ere long his wits came back to him, as the well-known notes told him that he was indeed again near home. And weak as he was, he found strength to send out over the river his own little feeble pipe. In a moment his mother was by his side.

The angler watched them for a moment, and then left them to tell his friend of the goodresult of a kindly deed. The next day they had to leave the river and all its delights, and to return to work and duty: but they cannot forget the Sandpipers, nor, when the birds return after their winter sojourn in the far south, will they fail to look out without misgiving for their human friends.

The Baron sat perched on an old gnarled oak, gazing across the deep ravine below him, where the noisy river leapt from pool to pool. He had been far over the moorland that day with his wife, searching for a safe nesting-place, and had given up the search in despair and returned to his old home; but the Baroness had dallied and been left behind, and now he was expecting her as the sun began to sink in the west. He sat there silent and sad, the last, so he thought, of an ancient race; his head, almost white with age, slightly bent downwards, and his long forked tail sadly weather-worn and drooping.

It was a fresh evening in early April, and one sweet shower after another had begun to enticethe ferns to uncurl themselves, and the oaks on the rocky slopes of the Kite’s fortress to put on their first ruddy hue; and now the showers had passed, and the setting sun was shining full in the old Baron’s face as he sat on his bough above the precipices. But neither sun nor shower could rouse him from his reverie.

Suddenly he raised his head and uttered a cry; and at the same moment you might have seen the Baroness gliding slowly over the opposite hill. As she neared him, she stopped in mid-air over the roaring torrent and answered his call; and then he slipped off his bough, like a ship launched into the yielding water, and silently joined her. They flew round and round each other once or twice, and the fisherman on the rocks below looked up and gazed at them with admiration. You could tell them apart without difficulty: the Baroness was the larger bird of the two, and her feathers were in better order—she was still young, not more than twenty or so; while the old Baron looked worn and battered, though the red of his back was brighter, and his fine tail was more deeply forked than that of his lady.

The Last of the Barons.

The Last of the Barons.

They began to circle round each other slowly, hardly moving their wings, but steering with their long tails, and soon they were far above the isolated hill which was known as the Kite’s fortress. Sweeping in great circles higher and higher, they seemed to be ascending for ever into the blue, never to come down again; now and again a white cloud would pass above them, against which their forms looked black and clear-cut, and then it would drift away, and you had to look keenly to see them still sailing slowly round and round, tiny specks in the pure ether.

All this time they were talking about a very important matter; not chattering and fussing, as common birds do—starlings, sparrows, and such low-born creatures—but saying a few words gravely as they neared each other in their great circles of flight, and thinking of the next question or answer as they parted for another sweep.

“Well,” said the Baron after a while, “have you found a better place than this, where ourpersecutors cannot reach us without risking their miserable lives?”

“No,” she answered, “none as good as this, and I have been far over the moors toward the setting sun. There are the crags looking down on the flat country and the sea, but they are not so well wooded, and they are too near that seaside town where we have enemies. I have looked at many other places too, but there were none to please me much.”

“I thought so,” said the Baron. “I have known all this country, every tree and every crag, since I first learnt to fly on the hill down below; and there is no such place as this. I and my old Baroness brought up many broods here, and now that I have a young wife again, she wanders about and wants to find a new home.”

“But men found you out and shot her here,” said the Baroness. The Baron sailed away from her in a wide sweep, but soon returned and spoke gravely again.

“Don’t talk of that, dear,” he said. “I have found another wife, and that was more than Icould expect. I searched far and wide, over land and over sea; I reached the ugly country to the south, where the smoke made my eyes water, and the fields were no longer green, and no mice or beetles were to be found; I turned again for fresher air, and came to a wild and treeless sea-coast, where the Gulls mobbed me and a gun was fired at me: but not one of our kind did I see—only the stupid Buzzards, and a Kestrel or two. I gave it up, and thought I was indeed the last of the Barons.”

“And then you found me after all near your old home,” said the Baroness, tenderly. “And we have brought up two broods, though what has become of them I know not. And last year we should have done the same, but for the creatures that came up the valley when we were just ready to hatch.”

“Ah,” sighed the Baron, and swept away again in a grand ascending curve.

“Why should they wish to ruin us?” asked she, as with motionless wings he came near her again. “Do we do them any harm, like the Ravens who dig out the young lambs’ eyes, orthe vulgar Jays and Magpies—poachers and egg-stealers?”

“Do them harm?” said the Baron, with anger in his voice. “Look at the white farmhouse down yonder! They are good people that live there, and know us well. For generations my family has been on friendly terms with them; they know we do not steal, or pick the lambs’ eyes, and in hard winters they do not grudge us a duckling or two, for if we were to die out it would be bad luck for them. We have our own estate, which seldom fails us; we have the wide moorland and are content with it, and can live on it without meddling with old friends’ property, like the Buzzards and the Ravens.”

“Then why are those other men so mad against us?” asked the Baroness again. “Is not this our own fortress, our old estate, entailed from father to son as you have so often told me, and called by our name? Why do they come and trouble us?”

“Perhaps the old Raven was right,” said the Baron, after a wide sweep; “he told me he had spent years among them as a captive, and hadlearnt their language and their notions. A great change, he told me, had come over them in the course of his long life. They are now too much interested in us, he said. Once they did not care at all about us, and then we flourished. Now they are poking and prying everywhere; they run about on all sorts of machines, find us out, and won’t let us alone. They go to the ends of the earth to worry us birds, wear our feathers in their hats, and put our skins and our eggs in their museums. It isn’t that they hate us, he said: it’s much worse than that. No, they pretend to love us, and they show their love by coming and spying after us and watching all we do. They are so fond of us that they can’t keep their hands off us; and the harder it is to find us the more trouble they take. Yes, I believe that old Raven was right! Man takes such an interest in us that there will be none of us left soon!”

“Let us try once more,” said the Baroness, with all the hopefulness of youth. “Come down and find a tree on the steepest face of the old fortress. It is quite time we were beginning;the oaks are reddening. Let us do what we can, and hope they will not take an interest in us this year.”

The Baron silently assented, glad that the ancestral rock should not be deserted; and descending rapidly, still in circles, they reached it as the sun set. Next morning at daybreak the tree was chosen—an oak, high up on a rocky shelf, looking to the west across the ravine and the tumbling river. And before the sun was high the foundation of the nest was laid.

In a close little room, in a narrow little street of a large town, poor Mrs. Lee, pale and worn, and rather acid, was scraping bread and butter for her children’s breakfast, and doling out cups of watery tea. Five young ones, of various ages, hungry and untidy, sat expectant round the table. Two places were still vacant; one, the father’s, as you might guess from the two letters awaiting him there, and the other for the eldest son, who helped his father in the workshop. In that shopfather and son had been already hard at work for a couple of hours, stuffing an otter which had been brought in the day before.

Now the two came in; the father keen-eyed but sad-looking, the son a big bold lad, the hope of an unlucky family.

Mr. Lee sat down and opened one of the two letters. As he read it, his face grew dark, and his wife watched him anxiously.

“Not an order, Stephen?” she asked.

“O yes, it’s an order,” he said bitterly; “a very nice order. It’s an order to pay up the rent, or quit these premises. Twenty pounds, and arrears five pounds ten. Where am I to get twenty-five pounds just now, I should like to know? Look at the jobs we’ve had all this last winter, barely enough to feed these little beggars, let alone their clothes. A few miserable kingfishers, and a white stoat or two, and such-like vermin. This otter was a godsend, and I shall only get a guinea for it. There’s Lord —— gone round the world, and no orders from him: and young Rathbone killed by the Boers, and no one with any money to spare, or this fellow wouldn’tbe pressing so. I tell you, Susan, I don’t know how to pay it.”

“Well, don’t pay it,” she said; “it’s not worth paying for. Take a house in Foregate Street, where people can see you, if you want to get on; I’ve told you so again and again. You’ll never get new customers in this slum.”

“I like to pay my debts,” he answered slowly, “and the workshop here is good. But there’s one advantage in Foregate Street, Susan: it’s nearer the workhouse!”

“Don’t talk nonsense before the children, Stephen. What’s the other letter?”

“I don’t know the hand,” he said, fingering it as he drank his tea. “I daresay it’s an offer to make me chief stuffer to the British Museum, or—Hallo!”

All eyes were fixed upon him; his teacup descended with a rattle into the saucer. The mother got up and came to look over his shoulder. And this was the letter:—

London,April 15, 1901.

Sir,—I learn from my friend Mr. Scotton of Eaton Place that you supplied him a year agowith a full clutch of British Kite’s eggs. I hope you will be able to do the same for me this year, as you know where they are to be obtained. I have in my cabinet full clutches of nearly all the British-breeding birds of prey, but the Kite is now so rare that I had despaired of adding its eggs to my collection till my friend gave me your address. I am ready to offer you twenty-five guineas for a clutch properly authenticated as British, and if you should be able to get me a bird as well I will give you ten guineas more, and employ you to set it up. I trust this offer will be satisfactory to you.

Yours truly,

William Gatherum.

“Satisfactory! I should think so,” cried the eldest son.

“Satisfactory! Why, you’ll get fifty guineas, if you ask for them, Stephen,” said the excited mother.

“Well, we could pay the rent anyhow with what he offers,” said Stephen, as he put the letter in his pocket. “But to tell you the truth,Susan, I don’t much like the job. I’ve a tender feeling about those eggs.”

“Don’t like the job!” she cried, looking at him almost fiercely. “Why, what’s the matter with it? Look at these children—haven’t they as much right to be fed as young Kites?” And Stephen, looking on his young birds, felt a twinge at his heart, while the fledglings opened all their young mouths at once in a chorus of protest.

“It’s a bad trade,” he said at last: “I wish I had never taken it up. So long as I collected in foreign parts, it was all very well, and I was young and independent; but now I’m getting old, Susan, and the travellers won’t take me with them; and here in England there’s no price for anything but what’s a rarity—and rarities do me as much harm as good. I tell you, Susan, those Kite’s eggs last year were the very mischief: it got about that I had taken them, and my name’s in bad odour with the best naturalists. It’s those private collectors, with their clutches and their British-killed specimens that I have to live by now; and a preciousset they are! What’ll they do with all their cabinets, I should like to know! Sell them to be scattered all over the place! Stow them away in a garret and forget all about them! Die some day, and have the public-house people picking ’em up cheap at your sale, to put in a glass case in the parlour! It’s infernal; I don’t like this job, Susan.”

Susan’s tears were beginning to run down. The sun had shone upon her for a moment, and then suddenly gone behind a cloud again. Two or three of the children, seeing their mother troubled, began to roar. Poor Stephen swallowed his tea, and fled from the confusion to his workshop, followed by his son.

“We must do this job, dad,” said Tom, when they were alone.

“I tell you I don’t like it, my lad,” said his father: “’tis bad for us in the long run, and bad for the Kites too. Your mother will say I am a fool; but there are not half a dozen pairs left in the kingdom, and I can’t go and persecute them for these private collectors. There’s a lot of nonsense talked about these things—extinctionof birds, and all the rest of it: but the Kites are going sure enough, and I won’t have a hand in it.”

“We must do this job all the same, this year,” said Tom, “for the sake of the rent, and then let ’em alone. We must pay that rent, Kites or no Kites: and see what’s to be done next.”

“Well then,” said his father, “you must go without me. You know where to go. There’s no County Council order there against taking the eggs, but all the same, I hope you won’t find ’em. Don’t take a gun: I won’t have the old birds killed, for any collection, public or private.”

Great was the rejoicing in the family when Tom was found to be packing up. His mother gave him a few shillings from her scanty stock, and urged him to bring a bird as well as the eggs; but this Tom steadily refused to do. “Dad’s tender about it,” he said. “We only want the rent, and when that’s paid, I shall look out for another start in life.”

Stephen Lee sat down and wrote this letter to Mr. Gatherum, which next morning greatly astonished that young gentleman in London.

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