At the weekend I watched a raven, one of a
pair I had observed in the morning flying round a high rock. The place where I was spending the day was a lake lying beside a path frequented by mountain walkers and climbers. Just before dusk the last of them passed along the path and the midges were on the water in thousands. Fish rose steadily, making expanding rings over the glassy sur- face of the lake which I could not fish without a breeze. The raven came down from the high peaks and flew along the path to the lake—a leisurely, heavy flight. He kept to the path and went on over the brow out of sight. In a little while he appeared again, flying back up to the rocks, and it dawned on me what he had been up to. He had been scavenging the path for the
picnic leavings—bits of bread or cake dropped by the procession of trampers too eager for new horizons to stop and enjoy the valley.
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