In your sea-shore wanderings, good reader, you must many a time and oft have witnessed the graceful flight of the tern or sea-swallow, the handsomest bird, perhaps, that ever saw its own image reflected in the glassy surface of a waveless sea; and you must have noticed its sudden dart and dip, now and again, after its prey into the bosom of the green, unbroken waves. This, of course, you have seen and admired a thousand times. But have you ever seen the merlin or merlin falcon (Falco æsalon), perform the same feat? No! Well, we did a few evenings ago; albeit the momentary immersion in the briny blue was probably, nay certainly, what the merlin would have avoided if it could. It happened in this wise: We were engaged on the beach painting our boat--there are few things but we can put our hand to with more or less success, always barring shooting, of our deficiency in which we recently made full and honest confession--when we suddenly heard that curious and indescribable half-scream, half-cheep, so well-known to the ornithologist, and which tells him so plainly that the utterer is a bird--usually a small bird--in dire distress, in constant fear and danger of its life. Looking round, we saw a merlin in hot chase of a sandpiper (Tringa hypoleucus), pursuer and pursued circling and wheeling in their arrow-like flight over the bent some hundred yards from the margin of the sea. Were it not for the manifest distress of the poor sandpiper, evidenced by its frequent scream, as if invoking all the kindly powers of heaven and earth to its aid, we should have considered it a most beautiful and interesting sight. The merlin was evidently hungry and in earnest, and we made no doubt at all, for there was no possible way that we could aid it, that the sandpiper was distined to be the fiery little falcon's evening meal. But Diis aliter visum--the gods had otherwise ordered it. All of a sudden it seemed to occur to the Tringa that if there was the slightest chance of escape for it, it must be in closer relationship with its favourite and familiar element, the sea; and to the sea accordingly in one rapid dart the poor bird betook itself. The merlin, as if aware that there was now at least a possibility that its prey might after all escape its clutches, made a magnificent dash after, and just as the sandpiper was over the sea, reached it, and pounced to strike, but missed; by the smallest fraction of a single second, a sharp zig-zag in the Tringa's flight kept it clear of the stroke, and the merlin, by the force and impetus of its flight, plunged head over ears into the sea, whence, with draggled plumage and brine-blinded eyes, it arose with difficulty, and betook itself to a rock ledge at hand to preen and dry itself, with no other consolation in its disappointment, probably, than a sotto voce merlin-wise muttering of the adage, "Better luck next time." The sandpiper, it is needless to say, was soon a mile away, winging its terrified flight to the