* * * * *
A few bubbles rising to the surface of what was now a muddy pool told of the disaster which had occurred. The bog keeps its secrets, and no one knows how many ponies have been engulfed in it.
The Hill Road to Burley.
VIII.—SKEWBALD IN TROUBLE
Spring had come at last. The cold east winds had been followed by warm south-westerly gales with soft rain, making the grass grow and filling the bogs also. The golden-yellow of the marsh-marigold at the stream’s edge was repeated in a lighter key by the stunted wild daffodils in the forest meadows, and again in higher but more diluted tone by the primroses on the banks outside the woods. The blackthorn was past its prime, but the bushes were still covered with blossom now looking like soiled snow. The oaks and beeches were still in bud only. The thorns had put out tufts of vivid green, drowning the grey-green of their lichened branches. In the swampy spots the catkins of the bog myrtle shone in the sun with extraordinary brilliance, presenting great patches of that rare colour in wild floral nature—deep orange and orange-scarlet.
Of course, the birds were here. Not only the residents, the stonechat and the little hedge and field birds, and the rook, crow, kestrel, and heron, but the migrants also. The chiffchaff uttered his name continually as he hunted in the scraggy budding oaks, the willow-warbler repeated his wavering refrain, crescendo and diminuendo, very like the bends in the “tail” in “Alice in Wonderland;” and the whitethroat was beginning to throw himself in ecstasy above the bushes. The blackcap flew from bough to bough, as he shrilled his wild, inconsequent, yet melodious and captivating song, while the garden-warbler skulked in the bushes, chuckling and fluting throatily at great length; the nightingale began to “jug,” while his shorter but more richly coloured mate industriously collected oak-leaves for her nest. In the beechwoods the woodwren flitted from bough to bough, repeating his clear call, followed by a twittering cadence like ice tinkling in a glass, while his wings quivered in time with his tune.
Above the moor the cock lapwing made occasional flights to amuse his sitting partner, flapping his rounded wings vigorously as he flew all ways, curving downwards to the ground without alighting and up again in another sweep, then “reversing” in his characteristic way. Meanwhile the redshank stood on the bog bobbing his head nervously, or whistled shrilly to his mate, if a crow or a man appeared on the horizon. The redshank likes to nest near the lapwing, which is as brave as the other is timid, dashing threateningly down on an intruder, especially its ancient enemies—crow, jackdaw, and harrier.