se where I had observed a
clump of elder bushes on the bare downside, it grew upon a village or
collection of rabbit burrows, and it is probable that in every case the
clump owed its existence to the wheatears who had dropped the seed about
their nesting-place. The clump where I had sought a shelter from the
storm was composed of large old dilapidated-looking half-dead elders;
perhaps their age was not above thirty or forty years, but they looked
older than hawthorns of one or two centuries; and under them the rabbits
had their diggings--huge old mounds and burrows that looked like a
badger's earth. Here, too, the burrows had probably existed first and
had attracted the wheatears, and the birds had brought the seed from
some distant bush.

Crouching down in one of the big burrows at the roots of an old elder I
remained for half an hour, listening to the thump-thump of the alarmed
rabbits about me, and the accompanying hiss and swish of the wind and
sleet and rain in the ragged branches.

The storm over I continued my rambles on Whitesheet Hill, and coming
back an hour or two later to the very spot where I had seen and followed
the wheatear, I all at once caught sight of a second bird, lying dead
on the turf close to my feet! The sudden sight gave me a shock of
astonishment, mingled with admiration and grief. For how pretty it
looked, though dead, lying on its back, the little black legs stuck
stiffly up, the long wings pressed against the sides, their black tips
touching together like the clasped hands of a corpse; and the fan-like
black and white tail, half open as in life, moved perpetually up and
down by the wind, as if that tail-flirting action of the bird had
continued after death. It was very beautiful in its delicate shape and
pale harmonious colouring, resting on the golden-green mossy turf. And
it was a male, undoubtedly the mate of the wheatear I had seen at the
spot, and its little mate, not knowing what death is, had probably been
keeping watch near it, wondering at its strange stillness and greatly
fearing for its safety when I came that way, and passed by without
seeing it.

Poor little migrant, did you come back across half the world for
this--back to your home on Whitesheet Hill to grow cold and fail in the
cold April wind, and finally to look very pretty, lying stiff and cold,
to the one pair of human eyes that were destined to see you! The little
birds that come and go and return to us over such vas