the wagtail hurries away in drooping flight, uttering his sharp call-notes.

If the snow is everywhere, bird-life is almost as ubiquitous. In the small swamp, which for some unaccountable reason has escaped the finger of the frost, we may flush the fat little jack snipe from his warm corner amongst the dead grass tufts. Unerringly he returns to his favourite winter quarters year by year, so that each season we may find him on precisely the same square foot of ground. His relation, the woodcock, is of a more wandering disposition, and it is only by the greatest good fortune we are favoured

with a glimpse of him as he darts in erratic course amongst the trees. The big grey herons stand and fish in places where the water is open; and the moor-hens and coots congregate in the salt-water broads and estuaries, leaving their inland meres and fishponds as soon as the frost becomes severe. Bird-life on the shore is little changed by winter's advent. True, we miss the graceful terns, sporting fairy-like above the summer sea; but their place is taken by countless other birds that make our coasts their winter quarters when their home in the arctic regions is uninhabitable. Vast flocks of

One little bird we often see along the coast at this season is the snow bunting. It is a thorough wanderer, and never stays long in one place. Here to-day, miles away to-morrow. It belongs to the class of gipsy migrants, or birds that have no regular winter home, but wander about at that

little, hurrying south again when its food supply has failed. No bird goes farther north in summer, its nest having been found almost as far north as man has penetrated. In some parts of England its early appearance is regarded as the forerunner of a severe winter. Another gipsy migrant is the shore lark, a circum-polar bird which lives on the wild arctic tun dras beyond the limit of forest growth. It has no winter home, and is just as accidental and erratic in its appearance in other

parts of temperate Europe as it is with us, coming south in severe weather, going north again as soon as its feeding-grounds are open. The wild moorlands, in summer so breezy and enticing, now look particularly dreary, especially if covered with snow; but the red grouse haunts them still, and finds his food in places where the snow has drifted. In severe weather he will often burrow deep down into the snow and sleep securely at night below the surface, safe in his warm bed. The ptarmigan, in flocks at this season, and in snow-white livery, comes lower down the hillsides from his usual haunts on the highest mountain-tops. Still he loves the snow, for his conspicuous white plumage is in harmony with it, and renders him safe from the marauding eagles and falcons that scour the mountains in search of prey.

Returning to more rural scenes, we find a stroll along the hedgerows and through the shrubberies by no means devoid of interest. To a casual observer the hedges seem deserted, but ever and anon the low, complaining note of the hedge sparrow will draw the attention to that sombre little bird as he glides, shadow-like, through the branches. Then the noisy blackbird loves to haunt the sunk fences, which are also a favourite retreat of the garrulous and ever-active little wren. Here and there a gay chaffinch or bunting sits on the topmost sprays, resting for a moment as they pass over the snowclad fields. But they must be ever watchful and on the alert, or the bold sparrow-hawk perchance will bear them off in an instant. Along the hedgerow sides or in the neglected weedy corners of the fields, where the thistle is allowed to flourish by the slovenly farmer, we often meet with a party of goldfinches: beautiful little birds, who display their bright colours to perfection as they cling with fluttering wings to the prickly thistle-heads, or flit along from stem to stem, scattering the downy seeds, which float away on the breeze. Nearer home we shall not fail to see the everwelcome robin, so neat and sprightly in spite of snow and frost, and watch him dispute with the sparrows for the scattered crumbs.

Another interesting bird of winter is the brambling, all the way from Swedish forests, a refugee from the arctic winter. Perhaps most nearly related to the chaffinch, he lives in flocks during the winter like that bird. He seldom wanders far from a chosen district when once he has taken up his quarters, and if not molested is a very tame and confiding little creature. He loves to feed on beechmast, and in winter the woods are made gay

and lively by this active visitor. Rooks and starlings are also birds of a wintery landscape, generally to be found in flocks near to dung-heaps or where fields are being manured and ploughed. In hard weather these birds. often suffer severely from hunger, but they usually retire to more favoured districts if the frost continues long. Another little bird often seen near dung-heaps at this season is the meadow pipit. This species lives in summer on the moors and uplands, coming into the sheltered districts for the winter.

Winter, however, is not all frost and snow. There are days, even in mid-winter, full of springlike balminess, which are apt to make birds forget the snow and frost, with all their attendant terrors, and to tempt them into unwonted activity. The skylark and the thrush feel the influence of the warm sunshine, and give vent to their joy in bursts of song; the wild ducks hasten back to inland waters, the skylarks return to the stubbles, and the various small birds, that kept close to our houses when the snow was lying deep, now rapidly desert us and return to their wonted haunts in the woods and fields.

Bird-life in winter cannot well be dealt with without some allusion to the accidental wanderers that severe seasons send to our hores. Handsomest of them all, and to the ornithologist perhaps the most interesting, is the waxwing. This uncertain and irregular winter guest visits us more or less sparingly every season from the Swedish forests; but in some winters it arrives in immense flocks. The last great waxwing season was in the winter of 1866-67. They arrived early in November, great flocks being observed in Norfolk. The waxwing breeds in enormous colonies, but is very erratic in its choice of a locality, a fresh one being selected every year, probably where food chances to be abundant. Although a rarity with us, it is by no means so in Russia, where, being generally very fat in winter, hundreds are sold in the frozen markets of St. Petersburg at three halfpence each! Another bird equally erratic in its appearance is the crossbill, which sometimes visits us in large flocks. A few birds are resident in this country; but the unusual "rushes" that make their way here belong to the class of gipsy migrants, which only wander southwards when an exceptionally inclement winter forces them to do so.

The songs of birds in winter must not be overlooked. Music and love with most birds go together; grey skies and wintery landscapes are not associated with either. Most birds

lose their song in the autumn moult, and never warble again until the following spring; but to this rule there are certain exceptions. In winter the robin is the most prominent songster, his sweet and plaintive strains being heard in every wood and coppice. He sings throughout the short winter days, even into the twilight, when the dull red sun settles solemnly down behind the hills. The restless little wren ranks next as a winter songster, his loud voice ringing cheerfully out from amongst the icicle-draped roots and

branches, through which he loves to hop and sport with tail held impudently erect. Another winter chorister is the handsome missel-thrush, or "storm-cock," the largest of the British thrushes. His notes are usually given forth from the topmost branches of the highest trees, and resemble those of the song thrush and blackbird, but possess a wild cadence peculiarly their own. Far up amongst the bending branches his rich wild lay is heard, the blinding snow-storm seeming but to increase the beauty of his song, and

to lend it an additional sweetness. The starling too warbles at intervals throughout the winter, as does also the song thrush. But the latter bird is a somewhat capricious musician, and appears to wait for an unusual burst of warm sunshine to woo him into song. In well-sheltered districts the hedge sparrow also contributes his simple little song to the winter concert. The skylark, again, sings occasionally in mid-winter, a mild day invariably sending a few birds warbling heavenwards. The blackbird is heard to sing in winter, but only now and then, in exceptionally mild weather. Many other

sounds, also, help to swell this winter concert of the woods and fields. I allude to the noisy twittering and merry call-notes of birds that have lost their song with the turn of the leaf. What, for instance, so cheery in the short winter days as the lively chorus kept up by a flock of redwings or bramblings, like peals of little bells on the tree-tops; the harsh chatter of the ever-active titmice; or even the loud caw of the rook, as he flies leisurely home at eventide. Such simple cries are passed unnoticed in the plethora of springtide music, but are welcome now, when every sound serves to relieve the monotony

of the silent woods, and to tell in prophetic strains of better songs to come.

In treating of bird-life in winter we must not conclude without a passing notice of the army of birds that left us in autumn-birds so familiar to us all that they become a necessary part of an English landscape. What summer picture of rural England is complete without the gliding swallows, the stranger cuckoo, the band of delicate warblers, the fly-catchers, the purring goat-sucker, or the sombre swifts? How closely are the hay meadows identified with the tree pipit, or the uplands with the wheatear and the whinchat? What spring or summer-time complete without its nightingale? Where are those songsters now? Basking in the perpetual sunshine of distant Algerian oases, amongst the pomegranates, figs, and date palms of Northern Africa, or hundreds of miles away in the fastnesses of the lonely Sahara. Were we to follow them we should find them as songless as their northern relations; waiting for the impulses of love to dawn in their little breasts, which will send them hurrying back again to English woods and fields, for they cannot associate love with Africa. Many of them are now in the warm basin of the Mediterranean, in Greece and Italy and

Palestine; many are in Egypt, amongst the pyramids and rice-fields of the Nile. The swallows are all gone south of the equator; many of the warblers are on the Gold Coast -a scattered family, but all to unite again as soon as spring returns. Many of these migrants are now in flocks, although they live solitary enough when with us. The principal reason for their departure is that they live on insects which are only found in our northern latitudes in summer. The cuckoo and the swallow are just as able to withstand the cold of a northern winter as the wren and the bunting, and would doubtless remain with us the entire year, if caterpillars and gnats could be obtained at that season. In just the same way, many birds that live in the arctic regions in summer visit our country in winter because they can here obtain the food they need.

It might be thought that bird-life in winter displayed too little variety to tempt the observer out of doors, but no greater mistake could be made. There is a novelty about the habits of birds at this season which will not fail to impress the beholder with its charm, and to fill his walks abroad, during the months of frost and snow, with feelings of deepest interest.

HANGES have taken place so rapidly in Egypt that if I, whose recollections go back to thirty years ago, were to describe streets and buildings, I might probably be regarded as an "Old Mortality." I am told that Cairo has been made "beautiful for ever," after the fashion of the Second Empire; that I would not know Shepherd's Hotelthe ancient and naked caravanserai, where the streams from India and England used to meet and mingle; that the bazaars are no longer the untouched reserves of the purest Orientalism; that Parisian Boulevards have taken the place of the deliciously unpaved streets, with their ragged but picturesque houses; that Alexandria has been burnt and rebuilt; in short, that Europe has invaded every town, piled its factory chimneys beside the palm-woods, has covered the Nile with pleasure-steamers, where the dahabeeh used to float like a bird, with its white wings spread in the clear air, and offering the priceless gift of a restful monotony to the traveller seeking reposc.

But people do not change their habits as quickly as they accept railways and telegraphs, especially when they are of the rank of life which lies beyond the pale of "Society." It will take a Darwinian cycle to alter the true Bedawee. Evolution will have effected something more wonderful than a new variety of pigeon, when out of the wild child of the desert it has produced the hero of the Stock Exchange or the frenchified dandy. Arab and Fellah care very little for the fashions so greedily aped by the Pashas. They are as stubbornly conservative as are the gipsies who, although favoured for centuries with a European environment, are as separate from Europe to-day as they were in the Middle Ages. The wall which divides Oriental and Western is not easily surmounted. It is marvellous how little is the real insight which a traveller can obtain into the life of Egyptian or Syrian. Donkey-boy and dragoman understand us far better than we understand them. The tourist can only gaze with curiosity at habits which are utterly alien to