BIRD NOTES IN WANSTEAD PARK. 299
thousands of these hardy birds, all in full chorus, having their
last talk out before retiring to roost. As we approach, up they
whirl in a dense cloud, and as they sweep round fill the air
with the sound of their wings like the rush of a storm through
the forest ; then they settle again and renew their wild converse.
Listen to that harsh bark that can be heard above it all; surely
the herons are come back to their spring quarters ; no doubt
about it, confirming what the woodman told that last Tuesday
some thirty of these shy but conservative fishermen returned
to their nesting trees. We have not gone far before their nests
come in sight ; one or two long-legged fellows are standing on
the homes of their future progeny, and with harsh cries flap
their huge wings and are off. They had caught sight of us
though we were two or three hundred yards away ; so now we
stand close and watch. What numbers of red-beaked moorhens
there are about, moving their pretty heads so regularly back-
wards and forwards as they glide along ; and look, swimming
straight towards us and leaving a long track of ripple, is a water
rat; with the telescope we watch every marking and hair on his
rough back, till round wheel the starlings again and we miss
his last dive. Now the herons in numbers come back to their
nest trees, and here and there one will settle, but most of them
detect us though we are fairly hidden, and they are away again.
But it is growing dusk and it is time we were moving home-
wards. As we pass, flocks of redwings are trooping with their
plaintive cry to roost ; a pheasant goes rocketting over the
tree tops ; scores of wood-pigeons fly out, and it is evident we
are intruders where solitude is accustomed to reign. So we work
our way back to the open, and pass again the mere where the
strong ripples catch the reflection of the red sun that is just
going down behind the line of grey trees on the horizon.
We see our distinguished visitor rising and sinking on the
waves far from the shore—and then we are back again to gas
lights and almost London traffic.
A ramble such as we have attempted to describe gives a
pleasure which we think few other sources are able to afford ;
and for those who love the country and are apt sometimes to sigh
for purer air, may we not rejoice that in the neighbourhood of
this great metropolis and almost at our very doors, there still
remains a store of nature's charms, which may fill the mind with
as true happiness as the most rural spots can supply.