Never in my experience has there been a worse spring season than that of 1903 for the birds, more especially for the short-winged migrants.

In April I looked for the woodland warblers and found them not, or saw but a few of the commonest kinds.

It was only too easy to account for this rarity.

The bitter north-east wind had blown every day and all day long during those weeks when birds are coming, and when nearing the end of their journey, at its most perilous stage, the wind had been dead against them; its coldness and force was too much for these delicate travellers, and doubtless they were beaten down in thousands into the grey waters of a bitter sea.

The stronger-winged wheatear was more fortunate, since he comes in March, and before that spell of deadly weather he was already back in his breeding haunts on Salisbury Plain, and, in fact, everywhere on that open down country.