the mists driving up the pass in slow, spectral procession, black storm-hidden crags above and milk-white torrents racing down the hillsides, until, with a sudden shift of wind, Scawfell's brotherhood of summits stands out bold and clear and sunny gleams turn Grasmere's leaden waters to silver? Or, yet again, shall we tramp knee-deep in heather over trackless moors, trampling out perfume with every step which scatters the dusty pollen?
But our main business after all is with the birds, and few will fail to appreciate the added charm which their presence gives to the wild scenery of which they form a part. The fly-fisher hears the piping of the sandpiper by the edge of some lonely tarn, rouses the heron from his solitary fishing, or sees the dipper shaking off the water as he emerges from the spray of the fall. The rock climber, negotiating an awkward "chimney" or gulley, is conscious of the rush of wings as raven or buzzard passes, apparently not uninterested in the possibility of a fatal termination to his adventure, and even the tweed-clad sportsman of "the twelfth," though his chief concern is naturally with "the birds," often has an eye for the minor feathered folk—twite, ring-ouzel, golden-plover and the like—which share the grouse-cock's home.
By mid-August the Ring Ouzels have cleared off most of the bilberries, which form their staple food earlier in the summer, and have come lower to the
