“Chuck, chuck”—“chuck, chuck, chuck!” The note is strangely reminiscent of the Fieldfare, but it is now June, and even the latest stragglers of that species have left us. We are on a hillside in Wales, below us lies the Irish Channel, with hardly a ripple on its surface, the hill itself is almost covered with a short growth of furze and heather, the intervening spaces being carpeted with short moss and grass, kept well cropped by the hardy race of sheep for which the Principality is justly famous. “Chuck, chuck”—this time we catch a glimpse of the bird, the beautiful white half-moon on his breast showing up clearly against the black of the rest of his plumage as he sits on one of the boulders that project through the vegetation and refuse to be hidden. He rises, and making a swift semicircular flight, pitches on another point of vantage, whilst the hen also appears and regards us with anxiety. However, as we stay still, she presently disappears, and he, ceasing his monotonous note, hops behind a tussock of grass, and all is quiet. Suddenly he reappears with a fine insect in his beak; we are still regarded with suspicion, and the clucking note is often repeated as he flies round us several times, continually settling for a few seconds to make sure whether our presence is for good or ill before he betrays the whereabouts of his nest, the all-absorbing interest of his life at the present time. Soon he takes another flight, and we lose sight of him as he disappears in a small gully. Following quickly we are just able to see his mate come from the steep side of the ravine, and almost simultaneously he appears and joins her in fluttering round us in a terrible state of agitation, and doubtless with a feeling that had he been more patient we should have gone away without finding his home. As, however, his cries produce no effect, he flies off and settles some distance away. A few feet down the bank, and cunningly hidden near a sheep-path, underneath an overhanging tuft, is the nest, built almost entirely of grass and bents, as is the case with most of the Thrushes, but with little or no mud. The young, four in number, being well grown, scramble out of the nest, calling out at the same time, and bringing their parents round us again, more vociferous than ever. We have, however, no evil intentions, and having satisfied our curiosity we continue our walk. Suddenly a bird rises from behind a stone at our feet, flies a few yards, and disappears round another boulder, this action is repeated several times, till finally, becoming really alarmed, he flies rapidly away over the spur of the hill. His plumage is uniformly dark, just a little lighter on the breast, and we recognise (if we did not already know it) a young bird strongly on the wing; a few yards farther on we see a hen bird, possibly his mother; she leaves her nest with four eggs, which much resemble those of a Blackbird. The nest was placed on the ground, under the shelter of a bramble. On all the moorlands and hills of the British Isles this Ring Ouzel may be found during the summer, nesting either as already described, or in holes of old walls, barns, or in fact wherever a spot can be found well concealed and sheltered from the wind. Towards the end of September he leaves his summer home and is then generally distributed throughout the country, although often overlooked owing to his resemblance to a Blackbird when seen from a short distance. Watch him, however, till he settles, for when alarmed he invariably perches on the top of the hedge before dropping down the other side, while the Blackbird, with his characteristic motion of the tail, enters the hedge at once low down on the near side. The Ring Ouzel is not at home in the cultivated lowlands, and by the end of October they have all left the country.

RING OUZEL
Turdus torquatus
Adult male (left). Adult female (above). Young (right)