home, and early next morning men and boys went into the reeds and gathered a bushel or so of dead starlings.  But the birds returned in their thousands that evening, and his heart being still hot against them he went out a second time to slaughter them wholesale with his big gun.  Then when he had blazed into the crowd once more, and the dead and wounded fell like rain into the water below, the revulsion came and he was mad with himself for having done such a thing, and on his return to the house, or palace, he angrily told his people to “let the starlings alone” for the future—­never to molest them again!

I thought it one of the loveliest stories I had ever heard; there is no hardness comparable to that of the sportsman, yet here was one, a very monarch among them, who turned sick at his own barbarity and repented.

Beyond the flowery wet meadows, favored by starlings and a breeding-place of swans, is the famous Chesil Bank, one of the seven wonders of Britain.  And thanks to this great bank, a screen between sea and land extending about fourteen miles eastward from Portland, this part of the coast must remain inviolate from the speculative builder of seaside holiday resorts or towns of lodging-houses.

Every one has heard of the Fleet in connection with the famous swannery of Abbotsbury, the largest in the land.  I had heard so much about the swannery that it had but little interest for me.  The only thing about it which specially attracted my attention was seeing a swan rise up and after passing over my head as I stood on the bank fly straight out over the sea.  I watched him until he had diminished to a small white spot above the horizon, and then still flying he faded from sight.  Do these swans that fly away over the sea, and others which appear in small flocks or pairs at Poole Harbour and at other places on the coast, ever return to the Fleet?  Probably some do, but, I fancy some of these explorers must settle down in waters far from home, to return no more.

The village itself, looked upon from this same elevation, is very attractive.  Life seems quieter, more peaceful there out of sight of the ocean’s turbulence, out of hearing of its “accents disconsolate.”  The cottages are seen ranged in a double line along the narrow crooked street, like a procession of cows with a few laggards scattered behind the main body.  One is impressed by its ancient character.  The cottages are old, stone-built and thatched; older still is the church with its grey square tower, and all about are scattered the memorials of antiquity—­the chantry on the hill, standing conspicuous alone, apart, above the world; the vast old abbey barn, and, rough thick stone walls, ivy-draped and crowned with beautiful valerian, and other fragments that were once parts of a great religious house.