the noctule or great-bat by its bold flight, broken by sudden downward swoops.
The Corncrake becomes silent towards the end of the month, but the Nightjar still reels from the heath where it hunts the white moths above the dewy fern. In wood and copse the pageant of summer passes in stately progress, garlanded with wild flowers, while butterflies, such as the large and gaily-painted fritillaries, dash proudly by or sun themselves upon the heads of thistle and scabious. In the plantation the cooing of Wood Pigeons is still heard, though the voice of the Turtle has ceased. If a change passes over the day, and from some dark cloud comes a clap of thunder, the cock Pheasants crow in answer to it. In the same way the noise of blasting or of cannon will always draw from them a defiant challenge. The Swifts seem to revel in thundery weather; their screaming is never more shrill and piercing than in the height of a storm. And after the rain passes and the sun comes out, who has not wondered at the swarm of tiny frogs upon the steaming road, limbs just developed and tail—last badge of tadpoledom—but newly absorbed?
The coveys of young Partridges are on the wing. The Chaffinches flocking upon the first bare stubbles, and the Starlings racing over the meadow, or rising in a cloud to wheel and manoeuvre as one bird, herald the larger assemblages of autumn. In some quiet inlet of the lake amongst pond-weed and sedges, hide
