It was by the sea-coast, on a bleak and wind-swept hill covered with short grass and patches of heather and gorse, that our attention was first directed to a light-coloured bird of fair size which rose at our feet from behind a tussock, and uttering a curious wild churring note, darted away against the strong south-west wind. Well has he earned his name of “Storm Cock” from his wild note and rapid flight. Watch him now, sustained by quick, continuous wing-beats, and now as the wind slackens carried along with a dipping motion and outstretched wings, the whole bird suggestive of strength and activity, and as fickle and changeable in his moods as the elements among which he delights to live. It was in June that I first saw him, when he and others of his kind, who but a few months before were callow and helpless nestlings, were learning from the summer gale a taste of what they would have to face when winter brought its storms and tempests, for the Storm Cock is no migrant to warmer climes and softer breezes, but leads a regular roving gipsy’s life over our Islands, wandering from the northernmost corners of Scotland to the south of England, obeying no will but his own, and guided by no special impulse beyond that of satisfying his own appetite,—by no means a difficult task, as little in the way of berries or insects comes amiss to him. His common name of Missel Thrush (Mistletoe Thrush) is derived from his supposed fondness for this berry, but this is a point on which doubt still exists. On the day when we first saw him, however, he was engaged in picking up the flies, ants, beetles, and other live prey which the scanty vegetation on the hill enabled him to see and capture easily. In spots where the ground was loose he would dig in his bill and turn over a small bit of earth, then stand with head held expectantly on one side, literally waiting for something to turn up. Often he would repeat this several times with little or no result, then all of a sudden down would go his head and we would make out something between his mandibles, then would come a quick movement of his head and his beak would be empty again. Suddenly one of his brothers near uttered an alarm-note, and in an instant he was up and across the valley, where for the moment we could not follow him. Thus, then, he spends his life from May till January: on cliffs by the sea, on bare moorlands, in thick woods—where the mountain-ash berries in their season form a favourite food—over open, cultivated fields where the freshly-turned furrow has unearthed abundant delicacies—or in the country hedgerow where hips and haws, elderberries and sloe are not less appreciated. Here to-day and gone to-morrow, a restless, wandering bird.