nty or thirty of them, in
loose order, tuck their bills under their wings and sleep. Two old birds
stand in the rear as if in command of the detachment. A sow, plastered
with mud like the rhinoceri in the African lakes, lies on the edge of
the brown water, so nearly the hue of the water and the mire, and so
exactly at their juncture, as to be easily overlooked. But the sweet
summer swallows sing on the branches; they do not see the wallowing
animal, they see only the sunshine and the summer, golden buttercups and
blue sky.

In the hollow at Long Ditton I had the delight, a day or two since, to
see a kingfisher. There is a quiet lane, and at the bottom, in a valley,
two ponds, one in enclosed grounds, the other in a meadow opposite.
Standing there a minute to see if there was a martin among the birds
with which the pond in the grounds is thickly covered, something came
shooting straight towards me, and swerving only a yard or two to pass
me, a kingfisher went by. His blue wings, his ruddy front, the white
streak beside his neck, and long bill, were all visible for a moment;
then he was away straight over the meadow, the directness of his course
enabling it to be followed for some time till he cleared the distant
hedge, probably going to visit his nest. Kingfishers, though living by
the stream, often build a good way from water. The months have
lengthened into years since I saw one here before, sitting on the trunk
of a willow which bends over the pond in the mead. The tree rises out of
the water and is partly in it; it is hung with moss, and the kingfisher
was on the trunk within a foot or so of the surface. After that there
came severe winters, and till now I did not see another here. So that
the bird came upon me unexpectedly out from the shadow of the trees that
overhang the water, past me, and on into the sunshine over the
buttercups and sorrel of the field.

This hollow at Long Ditton is the very place of singing birds; never was
such a place for singing--the valley is full of music. In the oaks
blackbirds whistle. You do not often see them; they are concealed by the
thick foliage up on high, for they seek the top branches, which are more
leafy; but once now and then they quietly flutter across to another
perch. The blackbird's whistle is very human, like a human being playing
the flute; an uncertain player, now drawing forth a bar of a beautiful
melody and then losing it again. He does not know what quiver or what