Four miles of a good, comfortable road running through a breezy heathland brings the pilgrim from Corfe to Wareham. On these heaths large quantities of white clay are dug up and run in truckloads to fill vessels in Poole Harbour. This clay is used for making pipes and in the manufacture of china. The clay pits are a very ancient and uninterrupted industry, and they have been worked continuously since the Romans discovered them. The spade of the Dorsetshire labourer still occasionally turns up fragments of Roman pottery made from this identical clay. When Stoborough, now a mere village, once an antique borough, is reached we come within sight of Wareham, which is entered across a long causeway over the Frome marshes. More life can be seen in an hour here by the Frome than in a whole long day upon the hills. I have noticed how the birds that fly inland, high above me, will follow the river as a blind man feels his way, by natural impulse. Over the water-meadows the peewits are twisting in eccentric circles, and everywhere in the reeds the little grey-brown, bright-eyed sedge-warblers are flitting about. It seems almost incredible that such a small bird as the sedge-warbler can produce such a torrent of sound. For a right merry, swaggering song, which, without being very musical, is indeed exhilarating, commend me to the sedge-warbler. He sings all the day long, and often far into the night, and even if he wakes up for a few seconds when he has once settled down to sleep he always obliges with a few lively chirrups.