which I had not heard before, I observed that one of these latter birds was pursued by a Hawk—I think, a Sparrow-Hawk. The two were close together—in fact, almost touching—the Hawk just above the Plover, spread like a fan over him, following every deviation of his flight, upwards, downwards, to one or another side, but sometimes falling just a little behind, though there was never a space between them. The two, so to speak, always overlapped. The Hawk, however, did not strike, nor, apparently, attempt to, and neither the pursued Plover nor any of the others appeared to me much concerned.[1] I can hardly say why—perhaps it was the easy, parachute-like flight of the Hawk, with nothing like a swoop or pounce, and the bright clear sunshine diffusing an air of joy over everything—but somehow the whole thing did not impress me as being in earnest, but rather a sport or play. After a little while the Hawk left the Plover, and flew off to some distance over the moor, and alighted upon it. The cry made by the bird pursued (I assume it was made by that one) was so different from the note I had yet heard that I at first thought it was the Hawk, which I imagined to be mobbed by the Plovers, and in distress. I was soon satisfied that this last was not the case, and doubt on the other point was soon removed, for, the whole flock of birds shortly rising and flying off, I now heard the same note uttered by them all about. It is very different to any other one that I have yet heard. Though plaintive, it is not nearly so wailing, and more musical. It is a whistling note, with a sort of tremulous rise and fall in it ("tir-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi") very pleasant to hear, and bringing the sea and beach to one's mind. The whole troop shortly returned, and came down once more in the heather, in a little while again rose, circled about, flew off, returning again—and did this several times, giving me the idea that they are congregating previous to migration, and have the restless feelings preceding it. When the birds settled they would proceed a little through the heather, making their quick short runs with abrupt stops, and following each other, but the greater number of them would before long settle down and sit about amongst the tufts. They never ran over the tufts, but in and out amongst them as we would do. I observed no dancing, though altogether I must have had the birds under
- ↑ But I may have been deceived. See pp. 275–6.
