Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.The Warren—Rabbit-Burrows—Ferrets—The Quarry—The Forest—Squirrels—Deer—Dying Rabbit—A Hawk.Under the trunks of the great trees the hedges are usually thinner, and need repairing frequently; and so it happens that at the top of the home-field, besides the gap leading into the ash copse, there is another some distance away beneath a mighty oak. By climbing up the mound, and pushing through the brake fern which grows thickly between the bushes, entrance is speedily gained to the wide rolling stretch of open pasture called the Warren. The contrast with the small enclosed meadow just left is very striking. A fresh breeze comes up from the lake, which, though not seen in this particular spot, borders the plain-like field in one part.The ground is not level; it undulates, now sinking into wide hollows, now rising in rounded ridges, and the turf (not mown but grazed) is elastic under the foot, almost like that of the downs in the distance. This rolling surface increases the sense of largeness—of width—because it is seldom possible to see the whole of the field at once. In the hollows the ridges conceal its real extent; on the ridges a corresponding rise yonder suggests another valley. The two rows of tall elms—some hundreds of yards apart—the scattered hawthorn bushes and solitary trees, groups of cattle in the shade, and sheep grazing by the far-away hedge, give the aspect of a wilder park, the more pleasant because of its wildness.Near about the centre, where the land is most level, an unexpected slope goes down into a cuplike depression. This green crater may perhaps have been formed by digging for sand—so long ago that the turf has since grown over smoothly. Standing at the bottom the sides conceal all but the sky overhead. Some few dead leaves of last year, not yet decayed though bleached and brittle, lie here at rest from the winds that swept them over the plain. Silky balls of thistledown come irresolutely rolling over the edge, now this way now that: some rise and float across, some follow the surface and cling awhile to the bennets in the hollow. Pale blue harebells, drooping from their slender stems here and there, meditate with bowed heads, as if full of tender recollections.Now, on hands and knees (the turf is dry and soft), creep up one side of the bowl-like hollow, where, the thistles make a parapet on the edge, and from behind it look out upon the ground all broken up into low humps, some covered with nettles, others plainly heaps of sand. It is the site of an immense rabbit-burrow, the relic of an old warren which once occupied half the field. The nettle-covered heaps mark old excavations; where the sand shows, there the miners have been recently at work. At the sound of approaching footsteps those inhabitants that had been abroad hastily rushed into their caves, but now (after waiting awhile, and forgetting that the adjacent hollow might hide the enemy) a dozen or more have come forth within easy gunshot. Though a few like this are always looking in and out all through the day, it is not till the approach of evening that they come out in any number.This is a favourite spot from whence to get a shot at them, but the aim must be deadly, or the rabbit will escape though never so severely wounded. The holes are so numerous that he has never more than a yard to scramble, and as he goes down into the earth his own weight carries him on. If he can but live ten seconds after the lead strikes him, he will generally escape you. Watching patiently (without firing), after the twilight has deepened into night presently you are aware of a longer, larger creature than a rabbit stealing out, seeming to travel close to the earth: it is a badger. There are almost always a couple somewhere about the warren. Their residence is easily discovered because of the huge heap of sand thrown out from the rabbit-hole they have chosen; and it is this ease of discovery that has caused the diminution of their numbers by shot or spade.The ground sounds hollow underneath the foot—perhaps half an acre is literally bored away under the surface; and you have to thread your way in and out a labyrinth of holes, the earth about some of them perceptibly yielding to your weight. There must be waggon-loads of the sand that has been thrown out. Beyond this central populous quarter suburbs of burrows extend in several directions, and there are detached settlements fifty and a hundred yards away. In ferreting this place the greatest care has to be taken that the ferret is lined with a long string, or so fed that he will not lie in; otherwise, if he is not picked up the moment he appears at the mouth of the hole, he will become so excited at the number of rabbits, and so thirsty for blood, that he will refuse to come forth.To dig for him is hopeless in that catacomb of tunnels; there is nothing for it but to send a man day after day to watch, and if possible to seize him while passing along the upper ground from one bury to another. In time thirst will drive him to wander; there is no water near this dry, sandy, and rather elevated spot, and blood causes great thirst. Then he will roam across the open, and by-and-by reach the hedges, where in the ditch some water is sure to be found in winter, when ferreting is carried on. So that, if a ferret has been lost some time, it is better to look for him round the adjacent hedges than in the warren.Long after leaving the bury it is as well to look to your footsteps, because of solitary rabbit-holes hidden by the grass growing up round and even over them. If the foot sinks unexpectedly into one of these, a sprained ankle or even a broken bone may result. Most holes have sand round the mouth, and may therefore be seen even in the dusk; but there are others also used which have no sand at the mouth, the grass growing at the very edge. Those that have sand have been excavated from without, from above; those that have not, have been opened from below. The rabbit has pushed his way up from an old bury, so that the sand he dug fell down behind him into the larger bole.The same thing may be seen in banks, though then the holes worked from within are not so much concealed by grass. These holes are always very much smaller than the others, some so small that one might doubt how a rabbit could force his body through them. The reason why the other tunnels appear so much larger is because the rabbit has no means of ‘shoring’ up his excavation with planks and timbers, and no ‘cage’ with which to haul up the sand he has moved; so that he must make the mouth wider than is required for the passage of his body, in order to get the stuff out behind him. He can really creep through a much smaller aperture. At night especially, when walking near a bury situate in the open field, beware of putting your foot into one of these holes, which will cause an awkward fall if nothing worse. Some of the older holes, now almost deserted, are, too, so hidden by nettles and coarse grass as to be equally dangerous.The hereditary attachment of wild animals for certain places is very noticeable at the warren. Though annually ferreted, shot at six months out of the twelve, and trapped—though weasels and foxes prey on the inhabitants—still they cling to the spot. They may be decimated by the end of January, but by September the burrows are as full as ever. Weasels and stoats of course come frequently, bent on murder, but often meet their own doom through over-greediness; for some one generally comes along with a gun once during the day, and if there be any commotion among the rabbits, waits till the weasel or stoat appears at the mouth of a hole, and sends a charge of shot at him. These animals get caught, too, in the gins, and altogether would do better to stay in the hedgerows.The grass of this great pasture has a different appearance to that in the meadows which are mown for hay. It is closer and less uniformly green, because of the innumerable dead fibres. There are places which look almost white from the bennets which the cattle leave standing to die after the seeds have fallen, and shrink as their sap dries up. Somewhat earlier in the summer, bright yellow strips and patches, like squares of praying-carpet thrown down upon the sward, dotted the slopes: it was the bird’s-foot lotus growing so thickly as to overpower the grass. Mushrooms nestle here and there: those that grow in the open, far from hedge and tree, are small, and the gills of a more delicate salmon colour. Under the elms yonder a much larger variety may be found, which, though edible, are coarser.Where a part of the lake comes up to the field is a long-disused quarry, whose precipices face the water like a cliff. Thin grasses have grown over the excavations below: the thistles and nettles have covered the heaps of rubbish thrown aside. The steep inaccessible walls of hardened sand are green with minute vegetation. Along the edge above runs a shallow red-brown band—it is the soil which nourishes the roots of the grasses of the field: beneath it comes small detached stones in sand; these fall out, loosened by the weather, and roll down the precipice. Then, still deeper, the sand hardens almost into stone, and finally comes the stone itself; but before the workmen could get out more than a thin layer they reached the level of the water in the lake, which came in on them, slowly forming pools.These are now bordered by aquatic grasses, and from their depths every now and then the newts come up to the surface. In the sand precipices are small round holes worked out by the martins—there must be scores of them. Where narrow terraces afford access to four-footed creatures, the rabbits, too, have dug out larger caves; some of them rise upwards, and open on the field above, several yards from the edge of the cliff. The sheep sometimes climb up by these ledges; they are much more active than they appear to be, and give the impression that in their native state they must have rivalled the goats. The lambs play about in dangerous-looking places without injury: the only risk seems to be of their coming unexpectedly on the cliff from above; if they begin from below they are safe. A wood-pigeon may frequently be found in the quarry—sometimes in the pits, sometimes on the ledges high up—and the goldfinches visit it for the abundant thistledown.Between the excavated hollow and the lake there is but a narrow bank of stone and sand overgrown with sward; and, reclining there, the eye travels over the broad expanse of water, almost level with it, as one might look along a gun-barrel. Yonder the roan cattle are in the water up to their knees; the light air ripples the surface, and the sunshine playing on the wavelets glistens so brilliantly that the eye can scarcely bear it; and the cattle ponder dreamily, standing in a flood of liquid gold.A path running from Wick across the fields to the distant downs leads to the forest. It would be quite possible to pass by the edge without knowing that it was so near, for a few scattered trees on the hillside would hardly attract attention. Nothing marks where the trees cease: thin, wide apart, and irregularly placed, because planted by nature, they look but a group on the down. There is indeed a boundary, but it is at a distance and concealed: it is the trout stream in the hollow far below, winding along the narrow valley, and hidden by osier-beds and willow pollards.Ascending the slope of the down towards the trees, the brown-tinted grass feels slippery under foot: this wiry grass always does feel so as autumn approaches. A succession of detached hawthorn bushes—like a hedge with great gaps—grow in a line up the rising ground. The dying vines of the bryony trail over them—one is showing its pale greenish white flowers, while the rest bear heavy bunches of berries. A last convolvulus, too, has a single pink-streaked bell, though the bough to which it holds is already partly bare of leaves. The touch of autumn is capricious, and passes over many trees to fix on one which stands out glowing with colour, while on the rest a dull green lingers. Near the summit a few bunches of the brake fern rise out of the grass; then the foremost trees are reached, beeches as yet but faintly tinted here and there. Their smooth irregularly round trunks are of no great height—both fern and trees at the edge seem stunted, perhaps because they have to bear the brunt and break the force of the western gales sweeping over the hills.For the first two hundred yards the travelling is easy because of this very scantiness of the fern and underwood; but then there seems to rise up a thick wall of vegetation. To push a way through the ever-thickening bracken becomes more and more laborious; there is scarce a choice but to follow a winding narrow path, green with grass and moss and strewn with leaves, in and out and round the impenetrable thickets. Whither it leads—if, indeed anywhere—there is no sign. The precise sense of direction is quickly lost, and then glancing round and finding nothing but fern and bush and tree on every hand, it dawns upon the mind that this is really a forest—not a wood, where a few minutes either way will give you a glimpse of the outer light through the ash-poles.Other narrow paths—if they can be called paths which show no trace of human usage—branch off from the original one, till by-and-by it becomes impossible to recognise one from the other. The first has been lost indeed long ago, without its having been observed: for the bracken is now as high as the shoulders, and the eye cannot penetrate many yards on either side. Under a huge oak at last there is an open space, circular, and corresponding with the outer circumference of its branches: carpeted with dark-green grass and darker moss, thickly strewn with brown leaves and acorns that have dropped from their cups. A wall of fern encloses it: the path loses itself in the grass because it is itself green.Several such paths debouch here—which is the right one to follow? It is pure chance. On again, with more tall bracken, thorn thickets, and maple bushes, and noting now the strange absence of living things. Not a bird rises startled from the boughs, not a rabbit crosses the way; for in the forest, as in the fields, there are places haunted and places deserted, save by occasional passing visitors. Suddenly the bracken ceases, and the paths disappear under a thick grove of beeches, whose dead leaves and beechmast seem to have smothered vegetation.Insensibly the low ground rises again, the brake and bushes and underwood reappear, but the trees grow thinner and farther apart; they are mainly oaks, which like to stand separate in their grandeur. There is one dead oak all alone in the midst of the underwood, with a wide space around it. A vast grey trunk, split and riven and hollow, with a single pointed branch rising high above it, dead, too, andgrey: not a living twig, not so much as a brown leaf, gives evidence of lingering life. The oak is dead; but even in his death he rules, and the open space around him shows how he once overshadowed and prevented the growth of meaner trees. More oaks, then a broad belt of beeches, and out suddenly into an opening.It is but a stone’s-throw across—a level mead walled in with tail trees, whose leaves in myriads lie on the brown-tinted grass. One great thicket only grows in the midst of it. The nights are chilly here, as elsewhere; but in the day, the winds being kept off by the trees and underwood, it becomes quite summer-like, and the leaves turn to their most brilliant hues. The stems of the bracken are yellow; the fronds vary from pale green and gold, commingled, to a reddish bronze. The hawthorn leaves are light yellow, some touched with red, others almost black. Maple bushes glow with gold. Here the beeches show great spots of orange; yonder the same tree, from the highest branch to the lowest, has become a rich brown. Brown too, and buff, are the oaks; but the tints so shade into each other that it is hard to separate and name them.It is not long before sounds and movements indicate that the forest around is instinct with life. Often it happens that more may be observed while stationary in one spot than while traversing a mile or two; for many animals crouch or remain perfectly still, and consequently invisible, when they hear a footstep. There is a slight tapping sound—it seems quite near, but it is really some little way off; and presently a woodpecker crosses the open, flying with a wave-like motion, now dipping and now rising. Soon afterwards a second passes: there are numbers of them scattered about the forest. A clattering noise comes from the trees on the left—it is a wood-pigeon changing his perch; he has settled again, for now his hollow note is heard, and he always calls while perching. A loud screeching and chattering deeper in the forest tells that the restless jays are there. A missel-thrush comes and perches on a branch right overhead, uttering his harsh note, something like turning a small rattle. But he stays a moment only: he is one of the most suspicious of birds, and has instantly observed that there is some one near. A magpie crosses the mead and disappears.Something moving yonder in the grass catches the eye; it is a reddish bushy tail, apparently without a body, yet held nearly upright, and moving hither and thither in a quick, nervous way. Suddenly down it goes, and the squirrel raises himself on his haunches to listen to some suspicious sound, holding his forefeet something like a kangaroo. Then he recommences searching and the tail rises, alone visible above the tall grass. Now he bounds, and as his body passes through the air the tail extends behind and droops so that he seems to form an arch. After working along ten or fifteen yards in one direction, he stops, turns sharp round, and comes all the way back again. Some distance farther, under the trees, two more are frisking about, and a rabbit has come to nibble the grass in the open.Looking across to the other side, where the fern recommences, surely there was a movement as if a branch was shaken; and a branch that, on second thought, is in such a position that it cannot be connected with any tree. Again, and then the head and neck of a stag are lifted above the fern. He is attacking a tree—rubbing his antlers against a low branch, much as if he were fighting it. He is not a hundred yards off; it would be easy to get nearer, surely, by stalking him carefully, gliding from tree trunk to tree trunk under the beeches.At the first step the squirrel darts to the nearest beech; and although it seems to have no boughs or projections low down, he is up it in a moment, going round the trunk in a spiral. A startling clatter resounds overhead: it is a wood-pigeon that had come quietly and settled on a tree close by, without being noticed, and now rises in great alarm. But it is a sound to which the deer are so accustomed that they take no notice. There is little underwood here beneath the beeches, but the beechmast lies thick, and there are dead branches, which if stepped on will crack loudly.A weasel rushes past almost under foot; he has been following his prey so intently as not to have observed where he was going. He utters a strange startled ‘yap,’ or something between that and the noise usually made by the lips to encourage a horse, and makes all speed into the fern. These are the happy hunting-grounds of the weasels.During spring and summer—so long as the grass, clover, and corn crops are standing, and are the cover in which partridges and other birds have their nests—the weasels and stoats haunt the fields, being safe from observation (while in the crops) and certain of finding a dinner. Then, if you watch by a gap in the hedge, or look through a gateway into the cornfield, you may be almost certain of seeing one at least; in a morning’s walk in summer I have often seen two or three weasels in this way. The young rabbits and leverets are of course their prey also. But after the corn is cut you may wait and watch a whole day in the fields and not see a weasel. They have gone to the thick mounds, the covers, woods, and forests, and therein will hunt the winter through.The stag is still feeding peacefully; he is now scarce fifty yards away, when he catches sight and is off. His body as he bounds seems to keep just above the level of the fern. It is natural to follow him, though of course in vain; the mead is left behind, and once more there is a wall of fern on either side of the path. After a while a broad green drive opens, and is much more easy to walk along. But where does it go? for presently it divides into two, and then the fork pursued again branches. Hush! what is that clattering? It sounds in several directions, but nothing is visible.Then a sharp turn of the drive opens on a long narrow grassy valley, which is crowded with deer. Parties of thirty or forty are grazing; and yonder, farther away by themselves, there must be nearly a hundred fawns. Standing behind a tree, it is a pleasant sight to watch them; but after a while comes back the thought, dismissed contemptuously long since—the afternoon is advancing, and is it possible to be lost? The truth is we are lost for the time.It is impossible to retrace one’s footsteps, the paths and drives are so intricate, and cross and branch so frequently. There are no landmarks. Perhaps from the rising ground across the valley a view may be obtained. On emerging into the open, the whole herd of deer and fawns move slowly into the forest and disappear. From the hill there is nothing visible but trees. If a tree be climbed to get a look-out, there is still nothing but trees. Following a green drive as a forlorn hope, there comes again the rattling as of clubs and spears, and strange grunting sounds. It is the bucks fighting; and they are not altogether safe to approach. But time is going on; unless we can soon discover the way, we may have to remain till the tawny wood-owls flit round the trees.There comes the tinkle-tinkle of a bell: a search shows two or three cows, one of which, after the fashion of the old time, carries a bell. She comes and butts one playfully, and insists on her poll being rubbed. Then there is more grunting, but of a different kind—this time easily recognised: it is a herd of swine searching for the beechmast and acorns. With them, fortunately, comes the swineherd—a lad, who shows a drive which leads to the nearest edge of the forest.Half an hour after leaving the swineherd, a rabbit is found sitting on his haunches, motionless, with the head drooping on one side. He takes no notice—he is dying. Just beneath one ear is a slight trace of blood—it is the work of a weasel, who fled on hearing approaching footsteps. Soon a film must form over the beautiful eye of the hunted creature: let us in mercy strike him a sharp blow on the head with the heavy end of the walking-stick, and so spare him the prolonged sense of death. A hundred yards further is a gate, and beyond that an arable field. On coming near the gate a hawk glides swiftly downwards over the hedge that there joins the forest. A cloud of sparrows instantly rise from the stubble, and fly chirping in terror to the hedge for shelter; but one is too late, the hawk has him in his talons. Yonder is a row of wheat ricks, the fresh straw with which they have just been covered contrasting with the brown thatch of the farmhouse in the hollow. There a refreshing glass of ale is forthcoming, and the way is pointed out.

Under the trunks of the great trees the hedges are usually thinner, and need repairing frequently; and so it happens that at the top of the home-field, besides the gap leading into the ash copse, there is another some distance away beneath a mighty oak. By climbing up the mound, and pushing through the brake fern which grows thickly between the bushes, entrance is speedily gained to the wide rolling stretch of open pasture called the Warren. The contrast with the small enclosed meadow just left is very striking. A fresh breeze comes up from the lake, which, though not seen in this particular spot, borders the plain-like field in one part.

The ground is not level; it undulates, now sinking into wide hollows, now rising in rounded ridges, and the turf (not mown but grazed) is elastic under the foot, almost like that of the downs in the distance. This rolling surface increases the sense of largeness—of width—because it is seldom possible to see the whole of the field at once. In the hollows the ridges conceal its real extent; on the ridges a corresponding rise yonder suggests another valley. The two rows of tall elms—some hundreds of yards apart—the scattered hawthorn bushes and solitary trees, groups of cattle in the shade, and sheep grazing by the far-away hedge, give the aspect of a wilder park, the more pleasant because of its wildness.

Near about the centre, where the land is most level, an unexpected slope goes down into a cuplike depression. This green crater may perhaps have been formed by digging for sand—so long ago that the turf has since grown over smoothly. Standing at the bottom the sides conceal all but the sky overhead. Some few dead leaves of last year, not yet decayed though bleached and brittle, lie here at rest from the winds that swept them over the plain. Silky balls of thistledown come irresolutely rolling over the edge, now this way now that: some rise and float across, some follow the surface and cling awhile to the bennets in the hollow. Pale blue harebells, drooping from their slender stems here and there, meditate with bowed heads, as if full of tender recollections.

Now, on hands and knees (the turf is dry and soft), creep up one side of the bowl-like hollow, where, the thistles make a parapet on the edge, and from behind it look out upon the ground all broken up into low humps, some covered with nettles, others plainly heaps of sand. It is the site of an immense rabbit-burrow, the relic of an old warren which once occupied half the field. The nettle-covered heaps mark old excavations; where the sand shows, there the miners have been recently at work. At the sound of approaching footsteps those inhabitants that had been abroad hastily rushed into their caves, but now (after waiting awhile, and forgetting that the adjacent hollow might hide the enemy) a dozen or more have come forth within easy gunshot. Though a few like this are always looking in and out all through the day, it is not till the approach of evening that they come out in any number.

This is a favourite spot from whence to get a shot at them, but the aim must be deadly, or the rabbit will escape though never so severely wounded. The holes are so numerous that he has never more than a yard to scramble, and as he goes down into the earth his own weight carries him on. If he can but live ten seconds after the lead strikes him, he will generally escape you. Watching patiently (without firing), after the twilight has deepened into night presently you are aware of a longer, larger creature than a rabbit stealing out, seeming to travel close to the earth: it is a badger. There are almost always a couple somewhere about the warren. Their residence is easily discovered because of the huge heap of sand thrown out from the rabbit-hole they have chosen; and it is this ease of discovery that has caused the diminution of their numbers by shot or spade.

The ground sounds hollow underneath the foot—perhaps half an acre is literally bored away under the surface; and you have to thread your way in and out a labyrinth of holes, the earth about some of them perceptibly yielding to your weight. There must be waggon-loads of the sand that has been thrown out. Beyond this central populous quarter suburbs of burrows extend in several directions, and there are detached settlements fifty and a hundred yards away. In ferreting this place the greatest care has to be taken that the ferret is lined with a long string, or so fed that he will not lie in; otherwise, if he is not picked up the moment he appears at the mouth of the hole, he will become so excited at the number of rabbits, and so thirsty for blood, that he will refuse to come forth.

To dig for him is hopeless in that catacomb of tunnels; there is nothing for it but to send a man day after day to watch, and if possible to seize him while passing along the upper ground from one bury to another. In time thirst will drive him to wander; there is no water near this dry, sandy, and rather elevated spot, and blood causes great thirst. Then he will roam across the open, and by-and-by reach the hedges, where in the ditch some water is sure to be found in winter, when ferreting is carried on. So that, if a ferret has been lost some time, it is better to look for him round the adjacent hedges than in the warren.

Long after leaving the bury it is as well to look to your footsteps, because of solitary rabbit-holes hidden by the grass growing up round and even over them. If the foot sinks unexpectedly into one of these, a sprained ankle or even a broken bone may result. Most holes have sand round the mouth, and may therefore be seen even in the dusk; but there are others also used which have no sand at the mouth, the grass growing at the very edge. Those that have sand have been excavated from without, from above; those that have not, have been opened from below. The rabbit has pushed his way up from an old bury, so that the sand he dug fell down behind him into the larger bole.

The same thing may be seen in banks, though then the holes worked from within are not so much concealed by grass. These holes are always very much smaller than the others, some so small that one might doubt how a rabbit could force his body through them. The reason why the other tunnels appear so much larger is because the rabbit has no means of ‘shoring’ up his excavation with planks and timbers, and no ‘cage’ with which to haul up the sand he has moved; so that he must make the mouth wider than is required for the passage of his body, in order to get the stuff out behind him. He can really creep through a much smaller aperture. At night especially, when walking near a bury situate in the open field, beware of putting your foot into one of these holes, which will cause an awkward fall if nothing worse. Some of the older holes, now almost deserted, are, too, so hidden by nettles and coarse grass as to be equally dangerous.

The hereditary attachment of wild animals for certain places is very noticeable at the warren. Though annually ferreted, shot at six months out of the twelve, and trapped—though weasels and foxes prey on the inhabitants—still they cling to the spot. They may be decimated by the end of January, but by September the burrows are as full as ever. Weasels and stoats of course come frequently, bent on murder, but often meet their own doom through over-greediness; for some one generally comes along with a gun once during the day, and if there be any commotion among the rabbits, waits till the weasel or stoat appears at the mouth of a hole, and sends a charge of shot at him. These animals get caught, too, in the gins, and altogether would do better to stay in the hedgerows.

The grass of this great pasture has a different appearance to that in the meadows which are mown for hay. It is closer and less uniformly green, because of the innumerable dead fibres. There are places which look almost white from the bennets which the cattle leave standing to die after the seeds have fallen, and shrink as their sap dries up. Somewhat earlier in the summer, bright yellow strips and patches, like squares of praying-carpet thrown down upon the sward, dotted the slopes: it was the bird’s-foot lotus growing so thickly as to overpower the grass. Mushrooms nestle here and there: those that grow in the open, far from hedge and tree, are small, and the gills of a more delicate salmon colour. Under the elms yonder a much larger variety may be found, which, though edible, are coarser.

Where a part of the lake comes up to the field is a long-disused quarry, whose precipices face the water like a cliff. Thin grasses have grown over the excavations below: the thistles and nettles have covered the heaps of rubbish thrown aside. The steep inaccessible walls of hardened sand are green with minute vegetation. Along the edge above runs a shallow red-brown band—it is the soil which nourishes the roots of the grasses of the field: beneath it comes small detached stones in sand; these fall out, loosened by the weather, and roll down the precipice. Then, still deeper, the sand hardens almost into stone, and finally comes the stone itself; but before the workmen could get out more than a thin layer they reached the level of the water in the lake, which came in on them, slowly forming pools.

These are now bordered by aquatic grasses, and from their depths every now and then the newts come up to the surface. In the sand precipices are small round holes worked out by the martins—there must be scores of them. Where narrow terraces afford access to four-footed creatures, the rabbits, too, have dug out larger caves; some of them rise upwards, and open on the field above, several yards from the edge of the cliff. The sheep sometimes climb up by these ledges; they are much more active than they appear to be, and give the impression that in their native state they must have rivalled the goats. The lambs play about in dangerous-looking places without injury: the only risk seems to be of their coming unexpectedly on the cliff from above; if they begin from below they are safe. A wood-pigeon may frequently be found in the quarry—sometimes in the pits, sometimes on the ledges high up—and the goldfinches visit it for the abundant thistledown.

Between the excavated hollow and the lake there is but a narrow bank of stone and sand overgrown with sward; and, reclining there, the eye travels over the broad expanse of water, almost level with it, as one might look along a gun-barrel. Yonder the roan cattle are in the water up to their knees; the light air ripples the surface, and the sunshine playing on the wavelets glistens so brilliantly that the eye can scarcely bear it; and the cattle ponder dreamily, standing in a flood of liquid gold.

A path running from Wick across the fields to the distant downs leads to the forest. It would be quite possible to pass by the edge without knowing that it was so near, for a few scattered trees on the hillside would hardly attract attention. Nothing marks where the trees cease: thin, wide apart, and irregularly placed, because planted by nature, they look but a group on the down. There is indeed a boundary, but it is at a distance and concealed: it is the trout stream in the hollow far below, winding along the narrow valley, and hidden by osier-beds and willow pollards.

Ascending the slope of the down towards the trees, the brown-tinted grass feels slippery under foot: this wiry grass always does feel so as autumn approaches. A succession of detached hawthorn bushes—like a hedge with great gaps—grow in a line up the rising ground. The dying vines of the bryony trail over them—one is showing its pale greenish white flowers, while the rest bear heavy bunches of berries. A last convolvulus, too, has a single pink-streaked bell, though the bough to which it holds is already partly bare of leaves. The touch of autumn is capricious, and passes over many trees to fix on one which stands out glowing with colour, while on the rest a dull green lingers. Near the summit a few bunches of the brake fern rise out of the grass; then the foremost trees are reached, beeches as yet but faintly tinted here and there. Their smooth irregularly round trunks are of no great height—both fern and trees at the edge seem stunted, perhaps because they have to bear the brunt and break the force of the western gales sweeping over the hills.

For the first two hundred yards the travelling is easy because of this very scantiness of the fern and underwood; but then there seems to rise up a thick wall of vegetation. To push a way through the ever-thickening bracken becomes more and more laborious; there is scarce a choice but to follow a winding narrow path, green with grass and moss and strewn with leaves, in and out and round the impenetrable thickets. Whither it leads—if, indeed anywhere—there is no sign. The precise sense of direction is quickly lost, and then glancing round and finding nothing but fern and bush and tree on every hand, it dawns upon the mind that this is really a forest—not a wood, where a few minutes either way will give you a glimpse of the outer light through the ash-poles.

Other narrow paths—if they can be called paths which show no trace of human usage—branch off from the original one, till by-and-by it becomes impossible to recognise one from the other. The first has been lost indeed long ago, without its having been observed: for the bracken is now as high as the shoulders, and the eye cannot penetrate many yards on either side. Under a huge oak at last there is an open space, circular, and corresponding with the outer circumference of its branches: carpeted with dark-green grass and darker moss, thickly strewn with brown leaves and acorns that have dropped from their cups. A wall of fern encloses it: the path loses itself in the grass because it is itself green.

Several such paths debouch here—which is the right one to follow? It is pure chance. On again, with more tall bracken, thorn thickets, and maple bushes, and noting now the strange absence of living things. Not a bird rises startled from the boughs, not a rabbit crosses the way; for in the forest, as in the fields, there are places haunted and places deserted, save by occasional passing visitors. Suddenly the bracken ceases, and the paths disappear under a thick grove of beeches, whose dead leaves and beechmast seem to have smothered vegetation.

Insensibly the low ground rises again, the brake and bushes and underwood reappear, but the trees grow thinner and farther apart; they are mainly oaks, which like to stand separate in their grandeur. There is one dead oak all alone in the midst of the underwood, with a wide space around it. A vast grey trunk, split and riven and hollow, with a single pointed branch rising high above it, dead, too, andgrey: not a living twig, not so much as a brown leaf, gives evidence of lingering life. The oak is dead; but even in his death he rules, and the open space around him shows how he once overshadowed and prevented the growth of meaner trees. More oaks, then a broad belt of beeches, and out suddenly into an opening.

It is but a stone’s-throw across—a level mead walled in with tail trees, whose leaves in myriads lie on the brown-tinted grass. One great thicket only grows in the midst of it. The nights are chilly here, as elsewhere; but in the day, the winds being kept off by the trees and underwood, it becomes quite summer-like, and the leaves turn to their most brilliant hues. The stems of the bracken are yellow; the fronds vary from pale green and gold, commingled, to a reddish bronze. The hawthorn leaves are light yellow, some touched with red, others almost black. Maple bushes glow with gold. Here the beeches show great spots of orange; yonder the same tree, from the highest branch to the lowest, has become a rich brown. Brown too, and buff, are the oaks; but the tints so shade into each other that it is hard to separate and name them.

It is not long before sounds and movements indicate that the forest around is instinct with life. Often it happens that more may be observed while stationary in one spot than while traversing a mile or two; for many animals crouch or remain perfectly still, and consequently invisible, when they hear a footstep. There is a slight tapping sound—it seems quite near, but it is really some little way off; and presently a woodpecker crosses the open, flying with a wave-like motion, now dipping and now rising. Soon afterwards a second passes: there are numbers of them scattered about the forest. A clattering noise comes from the trees on the left—it is a wood-pigeon changing his perch; he has settled again, for now his hollow note is heard, and he always calls while perching. A loud screeching and chattering deeper in the forest tells that the restless jays are there. A missel-thrush comes and perches on a branch right overhead, uttering his harsh note, something like turning a small rattle. But he stays a moment only: he is one of the most suspicious of birds, and has instantly observed that there is some one near. A magpie crosses the mead and disappears.

Something moving yonder in the grass catches the eye; it is a reddish bushy tail, apparently without a body, yet held nearly upright, and moving hither and thither in a quick, nervous way. Suddenly down it goes, and the squirrel raises himself on his haunches to listen to some suspicious sound, holding his forefeet something like a kangaroo. Then he recommences searching and the tail rises, alone visible above the tall grass. Now he bounds, and as his body passes through the air the tail extends behind and droops so that he seems to form an arch. After working along ten or fifteen yards in one direction, he stops, turns sharp round, and comes all the way back again. Some distance farther, under the trees, two more are frisking about, and a rabbit has come to nibble the grass in the open.

Looking across to the other side, where the fern recommences, surely there was a movement as if a branch was shaken; and a branch that, on second thought, is in such a position that it cannot be connected with any tree. Again, and then the head and neck of a stag are lifted above the fern. He is attacking a tree—rubbing his antlers against a low branch, much as if he were fighting it. He is not a hundred yards off; it would be easy to get nearer, surely, by stalking him carefully, gliding from tree trunk to tree trunk under the beeches.

At the first step the squirrel darts to the nearest beech; and although it seems to have no boughs or projections low down, he is up it in a moment, going round the trunk in a spiral. A startling clatter resounds overhead: it is a wood-pigeon that had come quietly and settled on a tree close by, without being noticed, and now rises in great alarm. But it is a sound to which the deer are so accustomed that they take no notice. There is little underwood here beneath the beeches, but the beechmast lies thick, and there are dead branches, which if stepped on will crack loudly.

A weasel rushes past almost under foot; he has been following his prey so intently as not to have observed where he was going. He utters a strange startled ‘yap,’ or something between that and the noise usually made by the lips to encourage a horse, and makes all speed into the fern. These are the happy hunting-grounds of the weasels.

During spring and summer—so long as the grass, clover, and corn crops are standing, and are the cover in which partridges and other birds have their nests—the weasels and stoats haunt the fields, being safe from observation (while in the crops) and certain of finding a dinner. Then, if you watch by a gap in the hedge, or look through a gateway into the cornfield, you may be almost certain of seeing one at least; in a morning’s walk in summer I have often seen two or three weasels in this way. The young rabbits and leverets are of course their prey also. But after the corn is cut you may wait and watch a whole day in the fields and not see a weasel. They have gone to the thick mounds, the covers, woods, and forests, and therein will hunt the winter through.

The stag is still feeding peacefully; he is now scarce fifty yards away, when he catches sight and is off. His body as he bounds seems to keep just above the level of the fern. It is natural to follow him, though of course in vain; the mead is left behind, and once more there is a wall of fern on either side of the path. After a while a broad green drive opens, and is much more easy to walk along. But where does it go? for presently it divides into two, and then the fork pursued again branches. Hush! what is that clattering? It sounds in several directions, but nothing is visible.

Then a sharp turn of the drive opens on a long narrow grassy valley, which is crowded with deer. Parties of thirty or forty are grazing; and yonder, farther away by themselves, there must be nearly a hundred fawns. Standing behind a tree, it is a pleasant sight to watch them; but after a while comes back the thought, dismissed contemptuously long since—the afternoon is advancing, and is it possible to be lost? The truth is we are lost for the time.

It is impossible to retrace one’s footsteps, the paths and drives are so intricate, and cross and branch so frequently. There are no landmarks. Perhaps from the rising ground across the valley a view may be obtained. On emerging into the open, the whole herd of deer and fawns move slowly into the forest and disappear. From the hill there is nothing visible but trees. If a tree be climbed to get a look-out, there is still nothing but trees. Following a green drive as a forlorn hope, there comes again the rattling as of clubs and spears, and strange grunting sounds. It is the bucks fighting; and they are not altogether safe to approach. But time is going on; unless we can soon discover the way, we may have to remain till the tawny wood-owls flit round the trees.

There comes the tinkle-tinkle of a bell: a search shows two or three cows, one of which, after the fashion of the old time, carries a bell. She comes and butts one playfully, and insists on her poll being rubbed. Then there is more grunting, but of a different kind—this time easily recognised: it is a herd of swine searching for the beechmast and acorns. With them, fortunately, comes the swineherd—a lad, who shows a drive which leads to the nearest edge of the forest.

Half an hour after leaving the swineherd, a rabbit is found sitting on his haunches, motionless, with the head drooping on one side. He takes no notice—he is dying. Just beneath one ear is a slight trace of blood—it is the work of a weasel, who fled on hearing approaching footsteps. Soon a film must form over the beautiful eye of the hunted creature: let us in mercy strike him a sharp blow on the head with the heavy end of the walking-stick, and so spare him the prolonged sense of death. A hundred yards further is a gate, and beyond that an arable field. On coming near the gate a hawk glides swiftly downwards over the hedge that there joins the forest. A cloud of sparrows instantly rise from the stubble, and fly chirping in terror to the hedge for shelter; but one is too late, the hawk has him in his talons. Yonder is a row of wheat ricks, the fresh straw with which they have just been covered contrasting with the brown thatch of the farmhouse in the hollow. There a refreshing glass of ale is forthcoming, and the way is pointed out.

Chapter Fourteen.The Rookery—Building Nests—Young Birds—Rook-Shooting—Stealing Rooks—Antics in the Air—Mode of Flight—White Rooks.The city built by the rooks in the elms of the great pasture field (the Warren, near Wick farmhouse) is divided into two main parts; the trees standing in two rows, separated by several hundred yards of sward. But the inhabitants appear to be all more or less related, for they travel amicably in the same flock and pay the usual visit to the trees at the same hour. Some scattered elms form a line of communication between the chief quarters, and each has one or more nests in it. Besides these, the oaks in the hedgerows surrounding the field support a few nests, grouped three or four, in close neighbourhood. In some trees near the distant ash copse there are more nests whose owners probably sprang from the same stock, but were exiled, or migrated, and do not hold much communion with the capital.In early days men seem to have frequently dug their entrenchments or planted their stockades on the summit of hills. To the rooks their trees are their hills, giving security from enemies. The wooden houses in the two main streets are evidently of greater antiquity than those erected in the outlying settlements. The latter are not large or thick: they are clearly the work of one, or at most two, seasons only; for it is noticeable that when rooks build at a distance from the centre of population they are some time before they finally decide on a site, abandoning one place after another. But the nests forming the principal streets are piled up to a considerable height—fresh twigs being added every year—and are also thick and bulky. The weight of the whole must be a heavy burden to the trees.Much skill is shown in the selection of the branches upon which the foundations are laid. In the first place, the branch must fork sufficiently to hold the bottom twigs firmly and to give some side-support. Then it must be a branch more or less vertical, or it would swing with the wind too much up and down as well as to and fro. Thirdly, there should be a clear or nearly clear space above the nest to give easy access, and to afford room for it to increase in size annually. For this reason, perhaps, nests are generally placed near the top or outer sides of the tree, where the boughs are smaller, and every upward extension reaches a clearer place. Fourthly, the bough ought not to be too stiff and firm; it should yield a little, and sway easily, though only in a small degree, to the breeze. If too stiff, in strong gales the nest runs the risk of being blown clean out of the tree. Fifthly, no other branch must rub against the one bearing the principal weight of the nest, for that would loosen the twigs in time, and dislocate the entire structure. Finally, rooks like an adjacent bough on which the bird, not actually engaged in incubation can perch and ‘caw’ to his mate, and which is also useful to alight on when bringing food for the young.It may be that the difficulty of finding trees which afford all these necessary conditions is one reason why rooks who settle at a distance from their city seem long before they can please themselves. The ingenuity exercised in the selection of the bough and in the placing of the twigs is certainly very remarkable. When the wind blows furiously you may see the nest moving gently, riding on the swaying boughs, while one of the birds perches on a branch close by, and goes up and down like a boat on the waves. Except by the concussion of branches beating hard against the nest, it is rarely broken; up to a certain point it would seem as if the older nests are the firmest, perhaps because of their weight. Sometimes one which has been blown down in the winter—when the absence of protecting leaves gives the wind more power on them—retains its general form even after striking against branches in its descent and after collision with the earth.Elms are their favourite trees for building in. Oak and ash are also used, but where there are sufficient elms they seem generally preferred. These trees, as a rule, grow higher than any others ordinarily found in the fields, and are more frequently seen in groups, rows, or avenues, thus giving the rook facilities for placing a number of nests in close neighbourhood. The height of the elm affords greater safety, and the branches are perhaps better suited for their purpose.After building in an elm for many years—perhaps ever since the owner can remember—rooks will suddenly desert it. There are the old nests still; but no effort is made to repair them, and no new ones are made. The winds and storms presently loosen the framework, about which no care is now taken, and portions are blown down. Then by-and-by the discovery is made that the tree is rapidly dying. The leaves do not appear, or if they do they wither and turn yellow before Midsummer: gradually the branches decay and fall of their own weight or before the wind.No doubt if anyone had carefully examined the tree he would have observed signs of decay long before the rooks abandoned it; but those who pass the same trees day after day for years do not observe minute changes, or, if they do, as nature is slow in her movements, get so accustomed to the sight of the fungi about the base, and the opening in the bark where the decomposing touchwood shows, as to think that it will always be so. At last the rooks desert it, and then the truth is apparent.Their nests, being heavy, are not safe on branches up which the strengthening sap no longer rises; and in addition to the nest there is the weight of the sitting-bird, and often that of the other who perches temporarily on the edge. As the branches die they become stiff, and will not bend to the gale this immobility is also dangerous to the nest. So long as the bough yields and sways gently—not much, but still a little—the strong winds do no injury. When the bough becomes rigid, the broad—side or wall of the nest offers an unyielding surface, which is accordingly blown away.The nests which contain young are easily distinguished, despite the height, by the almost continuous cry for food. The labour of feeding the voracious creatures must be immense, and necessity may partly account for the greater boldness of the old birds at that season. By counting the nests from which the cry proceeds the condition of the rookery is ascertained, and the amount of sport it will afford reckoned with some certainty. By noting the nests from which the cry arose last, it is known which trees to avoid in the rook-shooting; for the young do not all come to maturity at the same time, and there are generally a dozen or so which it is best to leave a week or a fortnight later than the rest.When the young birds begin to quit the nests, and are observed perching on the tree or fluttering from branch to branch, they must not be left much longer before shooting, or they will wander and be lost. A very few days will then make all the difference; and so it has often happened that men expecting to make a great bag have been quite disappointed, notwithstanding the evident number of nests; the shooting has been held a day or so too late. The young birds get the use of their wings very quickly, and their instinct rather seems to be to wander than to remain in the immediate vicinity of their birthplace.Some think that the old birds endeavour to entice them away as much as possible, knowing what is coming. It may be doubted if that is the case with respect to the very young birds; but when the young ones are capable of something like extended flight, and can cross a field without much difficulty, I think the parents do attempt to lead them away. When the shooting is in progress, if you will go a little distance from the rookery, out of the excitement of the sport, you may sometimes see two old rooks, one on each side of a young one, cawing to it with all their might. The young bird is, perhaps, on the ground, or on a low hedge, and the old birds are evidently endeavouring to get it to move. Yet they have not learned the only way in which that can be done—i.e. by starting themselves and flying a short distance, and waiting, when the young bird will almost invariably follow.If you approach the trio the two old birds at once take flight, seeing your gun, and the young bird in a few seconds goes after them. Had they the sense to repeat this operation, they might often draw the young one away from danger; as for their cawing, it does not seem to be quite understood by their offspring, who have hardly yet learned their own language.To appreciate this effort on the part of the old birds, it must be recollected that immediately after the first shot the great mass of the old rooks fly off in alarm. They go to some distance and then wheel round and come back at an immense height, and there, collected in loose order, circle round and round, cawing as they sail. For an old rook to remain in or near the rookery when once the firing has commenced is the exception, and must be a wonderful effort of moral courage, for of all birds rooks seem most afraid of a gun; and naturally so, having undergone, when themselves young, a baptism of fire. Those that escape slaughter are for the most part early birds that come to maturity before the majority, and so leave the trees before the date fixed for shooting arrived, or acquire a power of flight sufficient to follow their parents on the first alarm to a safe distance. They have, therefore, a good opportunity of witnessing the destruction of their cousins, and do not forget the lesson.Although the young birds upon getting out of the nest under ordinary conditions seem to like to wander, yet if they are driven out or startled by the shot they do not then at once endeavour to make for the open country or to spread abroad, but appear rather to cling to the place, as if the old nests could shelter them. After a while they begin to understand the danger of this proceeding, and half an hour’s rapid firing causes the birds to spread about and get into the trees in the hedges at some distance. There of course they are pursued, or killed the next day, three-quarters of a mile or more away from home. It is rare for old rooks to get shot, for the reason above stated: they rise into the air out of reach. Those that are killed are generally such as have lingered in the hope to save a young bird, and are mistaken and shot as young themselves.Young birds may be easily distinguished by their slow uncertain flight and general appearance of not knowing exactly where to go or what to do. They are specially easy to pick out if you see them about to perch on a tree. They go at the tree anyhow, crash in among the branches, and rather fall on a perch than choose it. The old bird always enters a tree carefully, as if he did not like to ruffle his feathers, and knew precisely what sort of bough he preferred to settle on. Close to the rookery there is no need to wait to pick out the young birds, because they are all sure to be young birds there; but, as observed, old birds will linger with young ones at a little distance, and may then be mistaken—as also on the following day, when sportsmen go round to pick up the outsiders, and frequently come on old and young together. The old bird will not sit and let you aim at him perching; if you shoot him, it must be on the wing. The young bird will sit and let you pick him off with a crossbow, and even if a cartridge singes his wing he will sometimes only hop a yard or two along the boughs.Though hard hit and shattered with shot, they will cling to the branches convulsively, seeming to hang by the crook of the claw or by muscular contraction even when perfectly dead, till lifted up by a shot fired directly underneath, or till the bough itself is skilfully cut off by a cartridge and both come down together. The young feathers being soft, and the quills not so hard as in older birds, scarcely a rook-shooting ever goes by without some one claiming to have made a tremendous long shot, which is quite possible, as it does not require many pellets or much force behind them.On dropping a rook, probably at some distance from the rookery, where the men are whose duty it is to collect the slain, beware of carrying the bird; let him lie, or at most throw him upon a bramble bush in a conspicuous spot till a boy comes round. Rooks are perfectly infested with vermin, which in a few minutes will pass up their legs on to your hand, and cause an unpleasant irritation, though it is only temporary; for the insects cannot exist long away from the bird.The young birds are occasionally stolen from the nests, notwithstanding the difficulty of access. Young labourers will climb the trees, though so large that they can scarcely grasp the trunk, and with few branches, and those small for some height; for elms are often stripped up the trunk to make the timber grow straight and free from the great branches called ‘limbs.’ Even when the marauder is in the tree he has some difficulty in getting at the nests, which are placed where the boughs diminish in size. Climbing-irons used to be sometimes employed for the purpose. As elm trees are so conspicuous, these thieving practices cannot well be carried on while it is light. So the rook-poachers go up the trees in the dead of night; and as the old rooks would make a tremendous noise and so attract attention, they carry a lantern with them, the light from which silences the birds. So long as they can see a light they will not caw.The time selected to rob a rookery is generally just before the date fixed for the shooting, because the young birds are of little use for cooking till about ready to fly. The trick, it is believed, has often been played for the mere pleasure of spiting the owner, the very night previous to the rook-shooting party being chosen. These robberies of young rooks are much less frequent than they used to be. One reason why those who possess any property in the country do not like to see a labouring man with a gun is because he will shoot an old rook (and often eat it), if he gets the opportunity, without reference to times or seasons, whether they are building or not.The young rooks that escape being shot seem to be fed, or partly fed, by the old birds for some time after they can fly well and follow their parents. It is easy to know when there are young rooks in a flock feeding in a field. At the first glance the rooks look scattered about, without any order, each independent of the other. But in a few minutes it will be noticed that here and there are groups of three, which keep close together. These are formed of the parents and the young bird—apparently as big and as black as themselves—which they feed now and then. The young bird, by attending to their motions, learns where to find the best food. As late as July trios like this may sometimes be seen.Besides the young birds that have the good fortune to pass unscathed through the dangers of rook-shooting day, and escape being knocked over afterwards, some few get off on account of having been born earlier than the majority, thus possessing a stronger power of flight. Some nests are known to be more forward than the others; but although the young birds may be on the point of departing, they are not killed because the noise of the firing would disturb the whole settlement. So that it becomes the rook’s interest to incubate a little in advance of the rest.After a few months they are put into another terrible fright—on the first of September. Guns are going off in all directions, no matter where they turn, so that they find it impossible to feel at ease, and instead of feeding wheel about in the air, or settle on the trees.The glossy plumage of the rook will sometimes, when seen at a certain angle, reflect the sun’s rays in such a manner that instead of looking black the bird appears clothed in shining light: it is as if the feathers were polished like a mirror. In feeding they work in a grave, steady way—a contrast to the restless starlings who so often accompany them. They do not put a sentinel in a tree to give warning of the approach of an enemy. The whole flock is generally on the ground together, and, if half-a-dozen perch awhile on the trees, they soon descend. So far are they from setting a watch, that if you pass up outside the hedge to the leeward, on any side except where the wind would carry the noise of footsteps to them, it is easy to get close—sometimes, if they are feeding near the hedge, within three or four yards. Of course if a rook happens to be in a tree it will not be possible to do so; but they do not set a sentinel for this purpose.Rooks, in a general way, seem more at their ease in the meadows than in the arable fields. In the latter they are constantly fired at, if only with blank charges, to alarm them from the seed besides being shouted at and frightened with clappers. The bird-keeper’s efforts are, however, of very little avail. If he puts the flock up on one side of the field, they lazily sail to a distant corner, and when he gets there go back again. They are fully aware that he cannot injure them if they keep a certain distance; but this perpetual driving to and fro makes them suspicious. In the meadows it is rare for them to be shot at, and they are consequently much less timid.At the same time they can perfectly well distinguish a gun from a walking-stick. If you enter a meadow with a gun under your arm, and find a flock feeding, they immediately cease searching for food and keep a strict watch on your movements; and if you approach, they are off directly. If you carry a walking-stick only, you may pass within thirty yards sometimes, and they take little notice, provided you use the stick in the proper way. But now lift it, and point it at the nearest rook, and in an instant he is up with a ‘caw’ of alarm—though he knows it is not a gun—and flies just above the surface of the ground till he considers himself safe from possibility of danger. Often the whole flock will move before that gesture. It is noticeable that no wild creatures, birds or animals, like anything pointed at them: you may swing your stick freely, but point it, and off goes the finch that showed no previous alarm. So too, dogs do not seem easy if a stick is pointed at them.Rooks are easily approached in the autumn, when gorging the acorns. They may often be seen flying carrying an acorn in the bill. Sometimes a flock will set to work and tear up the grass by the roots over a wide space—perhaps nearly half an acre—in search of a favourite beetle. The grass is pulled up in little wisps, just about as much as they can hold in their beaks at a time. In spring they make tracks through the mowing grass—not in all the meadows, but only in one here and there, where they find the food they prefer. These tracks are very numerous, and do the grass some damage. Besides following the furrows made by the plough, and destroying grubs, beetles, wireworm, and other pests in incalculable numbers, they seem to find a quantity of insect food in unripe corn; for they often frequent wheatfields only just turning yellow, and where the grain is not yet developed. Except perhaps where they are very numerous, they do much more good than harm.Rooks may now and then be seen in the autumn, on the hayricks; they pull the thatch out, and will do in this way an injury to the roof. Therefore old black bottles are often placed on the thatch in order to scare them. It is said that they pull out the straw for the stray grains left in the ear by the threshing machine. This seems doubtful. It appears more probable that some insect found on the straw attracts them.If you are walking past a feeding flock, the nearest rook to you will often exhibit a ridiculous indecision as to whether he shall fly or not. He stretches his neck and leans forward as if about to spring, stops, utters a questioning ‘Cawk?’ then watches you a moment and gives a hop, just opens his wings, shuts them, and descends within a couple of feet. ‘Cawk!’ again. Finally, if you turn from your course and make a step towards him, he rises, flaps his wings three or four times, extends them, and glides a dozen yards to alight once more.Sometimes a flock will rise in the air, and silently wheel round and round after each other, gradually ascending and drifting slowly with the current till they reach a great height. When they soar like this it is said to foretell fine weather. At another time a flock will go up and wheel about in the strangest irregular manner. Every now and then one will extend his wings, holding them rigid, and dive downwards, in his headlong descent wavering to and fro like a sheet of paper falling edge first. He falls at a great pace, and looks as if he must be dashed to pieces against a tree or the earth; but he rights himself at the last moment, and glides away and up again with ease. Occasionally two or three rooks may be seen doing this at once, while the rest whirl about as if possessed; and those that are diving utter a gurgling sound like the usual cawk prolonged—‘caw-wouk.’ These antics are believed to foretell rough winds.The rook, like other broad-winged birds, often makes much leeway in flying, though there be only a moderate wind. The beak points in one direction, in which the bird is apparently proceeding, but if observed closely it will be found that the real course is somewhat sideways. He is making leeway. So it is that a rook which looks as if coming straight towards you—as if he must inevitably go overhead—passes some distance to one side. He appears slow on the wing, as if to go fast required more energy than he possessed, yet he travels over great distances without the least apparent exertion.When going with the wind he sails high in the air, only flapping his wings sufficiently to maintain balance and steering power. But when working against the wind, if it is a strong gale, his wings are used rapidly, and he comes down near the surface of the ground. He then flies just above the grass, only high enough to escape touching it, and follows the contour of the field. At the hedges he has to rise, and immediately meets the full force of the breeze. It is so powerful sometimes that he cannot overcome it, and his efforts simply lift him in the air, like a kite drawn against the wind. For a few moments he appears stationary, his own impetus and the contending wind balancing each other, and holding him suspended. Then he rises again, but still finding the current too strong, tacks like a ship to port or starboard, and so works aslant into the gale. Shortly afterwards he comes down again, if the field be a large one, and glides forward in the same manner as before, close to the surface. In crossing the lake too, against the wind, he flies within a few feet of the water.During such a gale a rook may often be seen struggling to get over a row of trees, and stationary, though using his wings vigorously, suspended a little way above the topmost branches. Frequently he has to give up the attempt, turn back, and make a détour.Though rooks usually go in flocks, individuals sometimes get separated, and may be seen flying alone on the way to rejoin their friends. A flock of rooks, on rising, occasionally divides into two or more parties. Each section wheels off on its own course, while sometimes a small number of those who chance to be near the centre of the original formation seem at a loss which company to follow, and settle down again on the field. So a dozen or more become separated from the crowd, and presently, when they rise, they too divide; three or four fly one way to join one section, and others take another route. Individuals thus find themselves alone; but that causes them no uneasiness, as they have their well-known places of rendezvous, and have only to fly to certain fields to be sure of meeting their friends, or at most to wait about near the nesting-trees till the rest come.It must not, therefore, be supposed that every one flying alone is a crow. Crows are scarce in comparison with rooks. In severe weather a rook will sometimes venture into the courtyard of the farmstead.Two rooks marked with white resided at the rookery here for several years. One had sufficient white to be distinguished at a distance; the other seemed to have but one or two feathers, which were, however, visible enough when near the bird. As they have not been seen lately, they have probably been shot by some one who thought it clever to destroy anything out of the ordinary. Most large rookeries can either show a rook with white feathers, or have well authenticated records of their former existence; but though not rare, people naturally like to preserve them when they do occur, and it is extremely annoying to have them wantonly killed.

The city built by the rooks in the elms of the great pasture field (the Warren, near Wick farmhouse) is divided into two main parts; the trees standing in two rows, separated by several hundred yards of sward. But the inhabitants appear to be all more or less related, for they travel amicably in the same flock and pay the usual visit to the trees at the same hour. Some scattered elms form a line of communication between the chief quarters, and each has one or more nests in it. Besides these, the oaks in the hedgerows surrounding the field support a few nests, grouped three or four, in close neighbourhood. In some trees near the distant ash copse there are more nests whose owners probably sprang from the same stock, but were exiled, or migrated, and do not hold much communion with the capital.

In early days men seem to have frequently dug their entrenchments or planted their stockades on the summit of hills. To the rooks their trees are their hills, giving security from enemies. The wooden houses in the two main streets are evidently of greater antiquity than those erected in the outlying settlements. The latter are not large or thick: they are clearly the work of one, or at most two, seasons only; for it is noticeable that when rooks build at a distance from the centre of population they are some time before they finally decide on a site, abandoning one place after another. But the nests forming the principal streets are piled up to a considerable height—fresh twigs being added every year—and are also thick and bulky. The weight of the whole must be a heavy burden to the trees.

Much skill is shown in the selection of the branches upon which the foundations are laid. In the first place, the branch must fork sufficiently to hold the bottom twigs firmly and to give some side-support. Then it must be a branch more or less vertical, or it would swing with the wind too much up and down as well as to and fro. Thirdly, there should be a clear or nearly clear space above the nest to give easy access, and to afford room for it to increase in size annually. For this reason, perhaps, nests are generally placed near the top or outer sides of the tree, where the boughs are smaller, and every upward extension reaches a clearer place. Fourthly, the bough ought not to be too stiff and firm; it should yield a little, and sway easily, though only in a small degree, to the breeze. If too stiff, in strong gales the nest runs the risk of being blown clean out of the tree. Fifthly, no other branch must rub against the one bearing the principal weight of the nest, for that would loosen the twigs in time, and dislocate the entire structure. Finally, rooks like an adjacent bough on which the bird, not actually engaged in incubation can perch and ‘caw’ to his mate, and which is also useful to alight on when bringing food for the young.

It may be that the difficulty of finding trees which afford all these necessary conditions is one reason why rooks who settle at a distance from their city seem long before they can please themselves. The ingenuity exercised in the selection of the bough and in the placing of the twigs is certainly very remarkable. When the wind blows furiously you may see the nest moving gently, riding on the swaying boughs, while one of the birds perches on a branch close by, and goes up and down like a boat on the waves. Except by the concussion of branches beating hard against the nest, it is rarely broken; up to a certain point it would seem as if the older nests are the firmest, perhaps because of their weight. Sometimes one which has been blown down in the winter—when the absence of protecting leaves gives the wind more power on them—retains its general form even after striking against branches in its descent and after collision with the earth.

Elms are their favourite trees for building in. Oak and ash are also used, but where there are sufficient elms they seem generally preferred. These trees, as a rule, grow higher than any others ordinarily found in the fields, and are more frequently seen in groups, rows, or avenues, thus giving the rook facilities for placing a number of nests in close neighbourhood. The height of the elm affords greater safety, and the branches are perhaps better suited for their purpose.

After building in an elm for many years—perhaps ever since the owner can remember—rooks will suddenly desert it. There are the old nests still; but no effort is made to repair them, and no new ones are made. The winds and storms presently loosen the framework, about which no care is now taken, and portions are blown down. Then by-and-by the discovery is made that the tree is rapidly dying. The leaves do not appear, or if they do they wither and turn yellow before Midsummer: gradually the branches decay and fall of their own weight or before the wind.

No doubt if anyone had carefully examined the tree he would have observed signs of decay long before the rooks abandoned it; but those who pass the same trees day after day for years do not observe minute changes, or, if they do, as nature is slow in her movements, get so accustomed to the sight of the fungi about the base, and the opening in the bark where the decomposing touchwood shows, as to think that it will always be so. At last the rooks desert it, and then the truth is apparent.

Their nests, being heavy, are not safe on branches up which the strengthening sap no longer rises; and in addition to the nest there is the weight of the sitting-bird, and often that of the other who perches temporarily on the edge. As the branches die they become stiff, and will not bend to the gale this immobility is also dangerous to the nest. So long as the bough yields and sways gently—not much, but still a little—the strong winds do no injury. When the bough becomes rigid, the broad—side or wall of the nest offers an unyielding surface, which is accordingly blown away.

The nests which contain young are easily distinguished, despite the height, by the almost continuous cry for food. The labour of feeding the voracious creatures must be immense, and necessity may partly account for the greater boldness of the old birds at that season. By counting the nests from which the cry proceeds the condition of the rookery is ascertained, and the amount of sport it will afford reckoned with some certainty. By noting the nests from which the cry arose last, it is known which trees to avoid in the rook-shooting; for the young do not all come to maturity at the same time, and there are generally a dozen or so which it is best to leave a week or a fortnight later than the rest.

When the young birds begin to quit the nests, and are observed perching on the tree or fluttering from branch to branch, they must not be left much longer before shooting, or they will wander and be lost. A very few days will then make all the difference; and so it has often happened that men expecting to make a great bag have been quite disappointed, notwithstanding the evident number of nests; the shooting has been held a day or so too late. The young birds get the use of their wings very quickly, and their instinct rather seems to be to wander than to remain in the immediate vicinity of their birthplace.

Some think that the old birds endeavour to entice them away as much as possible, knowing what is coming. It may be doubted if that is the case with respect to the very young birds; but when the young ones are capable of something like extended flight, and can cross a field without much difficulty, I think the parents do attempt to lead them away. When the shooting is in progress, if you will go a little distance from the rookery, out of the excitement of the sport, you may sometimes see two old rooks, one on each side of a young one, cawing to it with all their might. The young bird is, perhaps, on the ground, or on a low hedge, and the old birds are evidently endeavouring to get it to move. Yet they have not learned the only way in which that can be done—i.e. by starting themselves and flying a short distance, and waiting, when the young bird will almost invariably follow.

If you approach the trio the two old birds at once take flight, seeing your gun, and the young bird in a few seconds goes after them. Had they the sense to repeat this operation, they might often draw the young one away from danger; as for their cawing, it does not seem to be quite understood by their offspring, who have hardly yet learned their own language.

To appreciate this effort on the part of the old birds, it must be recollected that immediately after the first shot the great mass of the old rooks fly off in alarm. They go to some distance and then wheel round and come back at an immense height, and there, collected in loose order, circle round and round, cawing as they sail. For an old rook to remain in or near the rookery when once the firing has commenced is the exception, and must be a wonderful effort of moral courage, for of all birds rooks seem most afraid of a gun; and naturally so, having undergone, when themselves young, a baptism of fire. Those that escape slaughter are for the most part early birds that come to maturity before the majority, and so leave the trees before the date fixed for shooting arrived, or acquire a power of flight sufficient to follow their parents on the first alarm to a safe distance. They have, therefore, a good opportunity of witnessing the destruction of their cousins, and do not forget the lesson.

Although the young birds upon getting out of the nest under ordinary conditions seem to like to wander, yet if they are driven out or startled by the shot they do not then at once endeavour to make for the open country or to spread abroad, but appear rather to cling to the place, as if the old nests could shelter them. After a while they begin to understand the danger of this proceeding, and half an hour’s rapid firing causes the birds to spread about and get into the trees in the hedges at some distance. There of course they are pursued, or killed the next day, three-quarters of a mile or more away from home. It is rare for old rooks to get shot, for the reason above stated: they rise into the air out of reach. Those that are killed are generally such as have lingered in the hope to save a young bird, and are mistaken and shot as young themselves.

Young birds may be easily distinguished by their slow uncertain flight and general appearance of not knowing exactly where to go or what to do. They are specially easy to pick out if you see them about to perch on a tree. They go at the tree anyhow, crash in among the branches, and rather fall on a perch than choose it. The old bird always enters a tree carefully, as if he did not like to ruffle his feathers, and knew precisely what sort of bough he preferred to settle on. Close to the rookery there is no need to wait to pick out the young birds, because they are all sure to be young birds there; but, as observed, old birds will linger with young ones at a little distance, and may then be mistaken—as also on the following day, when sportsmen go round to pick up the outsiders, and frequently come on old and young together. The old bird will not sit and let you aim at him perching; if you shoot him, it must be on the wing. The young bird will sit and let you pick him off with a crossbow, and even if a cartridge singes his wing he will sometimes only hop a yard or two along the boughs.

Though hard hit and shattered with shot, they will cling to the branches convulsively, seeming to hang by the crook of the claw or by muscular contraction even when perfectly dead, till lifted up by a shot fired directly underneath, or till the bough itself is skilfully cut off by a cartridge and both come down together. The young feathers being soft, and the quills not so hard as in older birds, scarcely a rook-shooting ever goes by without some one claiming to have made a tremendous long shot, which is quite possible, as it does not require many pellets or much force behind them.

On dropping a rook, probably at some distance from the rookery, where the men are whose duty it is to collect the slain, beware of carrying the bird; let him lie, or at most throw him upon a bramble bush in a conspicuous spot till a boy comes round. Rooks are perfectly infested with vermin, which in a few minutes will pass up their legs on to your hand, and cause an unpleasant irritation, though it is only temporary; for the insects cannot exist long away from the bird.

The young birds are occasionally stolen from the nests, notwithstanding the difficulty of access. Young labourers will climb the trees, though so large that they can scarcely grasp the trunk, and with few branches, and those small for some height; for elms are often stripped up the trunk to make the timber grow straight and free from the great branches called ‘limbs.’ Even when the marauder is in the tree he has some difficulty in getting at the nests, which are placed where the boughs diminish in size. Climbing-irons used to be sometimes employed for the purpose. As elm trees are so conspicuous, these thieving practices cannot well be carried on while it is light. So the rook-poachers go up the trees in the dead of night; and as the old rooks would make a tremendous noise and so attract attention, they carry a lantern with them, the light from which silences the birds. So long as they can see a light they will not caw.

The time selected to rob a rookery is generally just before the date fixed for the shooting, because the young birds are of little use for cooking till about ready to fly. The trick, it is believed, has often been played for the mere pleasure of spiting the owner, the very night previous to the rook-shooting party being chosen. These robberies of young rooks are much less frequent than they used to be. One reason why those who possess any property in the country do not like to see a labouring man with a gun is because he will shoot an old rook (and often eat it), if he gets the opportunity, without reference to times or seasons, whether they are building or not.

The young rooks that escape being shot seem to be fed, or partly fed, by the old birds for some time after they can fly well and follow their parents. It is easy to know when there are young rooks in a flock feeding in a field. At the first glance the rooks look scattered about, without any order, each independent of the other. But in a few minutes it will be noticed that here and there are groups of three, which keep close together. These are formed of the parents and the young bird—apparently as big and as black as themselves—which they feed now and then. The young bird, by attending to their motions, learns where to find the best food. As late as July trios like this may sometimes be seen.

Besides the young birds that have the good fortune to pass unscathed through the dangers of rook-shooting day, and escape being knocked over afterwards, some few get off on account of having been born earlier than the majority, thus possessing a stronger power of flight. Some nests are known to be more forward than the others; but although the young birds may be on the point of departing, they are not killed because the noise of the firing would disturb the whole settlement. So that it becomes the rook’s interest to incubate a little in advance of the rest.

After a few months they are put into another terrible fright—on the first of September. Guns are going off in all directions, no matter where they turn, so that they find it impossible to feel at ease, and instead of feeding wheel about in the air, or settle on the trees.

The glossy plumage of the rook will sometimes, when seen at a certain angle, reflect the sun’s rays in such a manner that instead of looking black the bird appears clothed in shining light: it is as if the feathers were polished like a mirror. In feeding they work in a grave, steady way—a contrast to the restless starlings who so often accompany them. They do not put a sentinel in a tree to give warning of the approach of an enemy. The whole flock is generally on the ground together, and, if half-a-dozen perch awhile on the trees, they soon descend. So far are they from setting a watch, that if you pass up outside the hedge to the leeward, on any side except where the wind would carry the noise of footsteps to them, it is easy to get close—sometimes, if they are feeding near the hedge, within three or four yards. Of course if a rook happens to be in a tree it will not be possible to do so; but they do not set a sentinel for this purpose.

Rooks, in a general way, seem more at their ease in the meadows than in the arable fields. In the latter they are constantly fired at, if only with blank charges, to alarm them from the seed besides being shouted at and frightened with clappers. The bird-keeper’s efforts are, however, of very little avail. If he puts the flock up on one side of the field, they lazily sail to a distant corner, and when he gets there go back again. They are fully aware that he cannot injure them if they keep a certain distance; but this perpetual driving to and fro makes them suspicious. In the meadows it is rare for them to be shot at, and they are consequently much less timid.

At the same time they can perfectly well distinguish a gun from a walking-stick. If you enter a meadow with a gun under your arm, and find a flock feeding, they immediately cease searching for food and keep a strict watch on your movements; and if you approach, they are off directly. If you carry a walking-stick only, you may pass within thirty yards sometimes, and they take little notice, provided you use the stick in the proper way. But now lift it, and point it at the nearest rook, and in an instant he is up with a ‘caw’ of alarm—though he knows it is not a gun—and flies just above the surface of the ground till he considers himself safe from possibility of danger. Often the whole flock will move before that gesture. It is noticeable that no wild creatures, birds or animals, like anything pointed at them: you may swing your stick freely, but point it, and off goes the finch that showed no previous alarm. So too, dogs do not seem easy if a stick is pointed at them.

Rooks are easily approached in the autumn, when gorging the acorns. They may often be seen flying carrying an acorn in the bill. Sometimes a flock will set to work and tear up the grass by the roots over a wide space—perhaps nearly half an acre—in search of a favourite beetle. The grass is pulled up in little wisps, just about as much as they can hold in their beaks at a time. In spring they make tracks through the mowing grass—not in all the meadows, but only in one here and there, where they find the food they prefer. These tracks are very numerous, and do the grass some damage. Besides following the furrows made by the plough, and destroying grubs, beetles, wireworm, and other pests in incalculable numbers, they seem to find a quantity of insect food in unripe corn; for they often frequent wheatfields only just turning yellow, and where the grain is not yet developed. Except perhaps where they are very numerous, they do much more good than harm.

Rooks may now and then be seen in the autumn, on the hayricks; they pull the thatch out, and will do in this way an injury to the roof. Therefore old black bottles are often placed on the thatch in order to scare them. It is said that they pull out the straw for the stray grains left in the ear by the threshing machine. This seems doubtful. It appears more probable that some insect found on the straw attracts them.

If you are walking past a feeding flock, the nearest rook to you will often exhibit a ridiculous indecision as to whether he shall fly or not. He stretches his neck and leans forward as if about to spring, stops, utters a questioning ‘Cawk?’ then watches you a moment and gives a hop, just opens his wings, shuts them, and descends within a couple of feet. ‘Cawk!’ again. Finally, if you turn from your course and make a step towards him, he rises, flaps his wings three or four times, extends them, and glides a dozen yards to alight once more.

Sometimes a flock will rise in the air, and silently wheel round and round after each other, gradually ascending and drifting slowly with the current till they reach a great height. When they soar like this it is said to foretell fine weather. At another time a flock will go up and wheel about in the strangest irregular manner. Every now and then one will extend his wings, holding them rigid, and dive downwards, in his headlong descent wavering to and fro like a sheet of paper falling edge first. He falls at a great pace, and looks as if he must be dashed to pieces against a tree or the earth; but he rights himself at the last moment, and glides away and up again with ease. Occasionally two or three rooks may be seen doing this at once, while the rest whirl about as if possessed; and those that are diving utter a gurgling sound like the usual cawk prolonged—‘caw-wouk.’ These antics are believed to foretell rough winds.

The rook, like other broad-winged birds, often makes much leeway in flying, though there be only a moderate wind. The beak points in one direction, in which the bird is apparently proceeding, but if observed closely it will be found that the real course is somewhat sideways. He is making leeway. So it is that a rook which looks as if coming straight towards you—as if he must inevitably go overhead—passes some distance to one side. He appears slow on the wing, as if to go fast required more energy than he possessed, yet he travels over great distances without the least apparent exertion.

When going with the wind he sails high in the air, only flapping his wings sufficiently to maintain balance and steering power. But when working against the wind, if it is a strong gale, his wings are used rapidly, and he comes down near the surface of the ground. He then flies just above the grass, only high enough to escape touching it, and follows the contour of the field. At the hedges he has to rise, and immediately meets the full force of the breeze. It is so powerful sometimes that he cannot overcome it, and his efforts simply lift him in the air, like a kite drawn against the wind. For a few moments he appears stationary, his own impetus and the contending wind balancing each other, and holding him suspended. Then he rises again, but still finding the current too strong, tacks like a ship to port or starboard, and so works aslant into the gale. Shortly afterwards he comes down again, if the field be a large one, and glides forward in the same manner as before, close to the surface. In crossing the lake too, against the wind, he flies within a few feet of the water.

During such a gale a rook may often be seen struggling to get over a row of trees, and stationary, though using his wings vigorously, suspended a little way above the topmost branches. Frequently he has to give up the attempt, turn back, and make a détour.

Though rooks usually go in flocks, individuals sometimes get separated, and may be seen flying alone on the way to rejoin their friends. A flock of rooks, on rising, occasionally divides into two or more parties. Each section wheels off on its own course, while sometimes a small number of those who chance to be near the centre of the original formation seem at a loss which company to follow, and settle down again on the field. So a dozen or more become separated from the crowd, and presently, when they rise, they too divide; three or four fly one way to join one section, and others take another route. Individuals thus find themselves alone; but that causes them no uneasiness, as they have their well-known places of rendezvous, and have only to fly to certain fields to be sure of meeting their friends, or at most to wait about near the nesting-trees till the rest come.

It must not, therefore, be supposed that every one flying alone is a crow. Crows are scarce in comparison with rooks. In severe weather a rook will sometimes venture into the courtyard of the farmstead.

Two rooks marked with white resided at the rookery here for several years. One had sufficient white to be distinguished at a distance; the other seemed to have but one or two feathers, which were, however, visible enough when near the bird. As they have not been seen lately, they have probably been shot by some one who thought it clever to destroy anything out of the ordinary. Most large rookeries can either show a rook with white feathers, or have well authenticated records of their former existence; but though not rare, people naturally like to preserve them when they do occur, and it is extremely annoying to have them wantonly killed.

Chapter Fifteen.Rooks Returning to Roost—Vast Flocks—Rook Parliament—The Two Rook Armies and their Routes—Rook Laws, Traditions, and Ancient History—“Throws” of Timber—Thieving Jackdaws.As evening approaches, and the rooks begin to wing their way homewards, sometimes a great number of them will alight upon the steep ascent close under the entrenchment on the downs which has been described, and from whence the wood and beech trees where they sleep can be seen. They do not seem so much in search of food, of which probably there is not a great deal to be found in the short, dried-up herbage and hard soil, as to rest here, half-way home from the arable fields. Sometimes they wheel and circle in fantastic flight over the very brow of the down, just above the rampart; occasionally, in the raw cold days of winter, they perch moping in disconsolate mood upon the bare branches of the clumps of trees on the ridge.After the nesting time is over and they have got back to their old habits—which during that period are quite reversed—it is a sight to see from hence the long black stream in the air steadily flowing onwards to the wood below. They stretch from here to the roosting-trees, fully a mile and a half—literally as the crow flies; and backwards in the opposite direction the line reaches as far as the eye can see. It is safe to estimate that the aerial army’s line of march extends over quite five miles in one unbroken corps. The breadth they occupy in the atmosphere varies—now twenty yards, now fifty, now a hundred, on an average say fifty yards; but rooks do not fly very close together like starlings, and the mass, it may be observed, fly on the same plane. Instead of three or four layers one above the other, the greater number pass by at the same height from the ground, side by side on a level, as soldiers would march upon a road: not meaning, of course, an absolute, but a relative level. This formation is more apparent from an elevation—as it were, up among them—than from below; and looking along their line towards the distant wood it is like glancing under a black canopy.Small outlying parties straggle from the line—now on one side, now on the other; sometimes a few descend to alight on trees in the meadows, where doubtless their nests were situated in the spring. For it is a habit of theirs, months after the nesting is over and also before it begins, to pay a flying visit to the trees in the evening, callingen routeto see that all is well and to assert possession.The rustling sound of these thousands upon thousands of wings beating the air with slow steady stroke can hardly be compared to anything else in its weird oppressiveness, so to say: it is a little like falling water, but may be best likened, perhaps, to a vast invisible broom sweeping the sky. Every now and then a rook passes with ragged wing—several feathers gone, so that you can see daylight through it; sometimes the feathers are missing from the centre, leaving a great gap, so that it looks as if the bird had a large wing on this side and on the other two narrow ones. There is a rough resemblance between these and the torn sails of some of the old windmills which have become dark in colour from long exposure to the weather, and have been rent by the storms of years. Rooks can fly with gaps of astonishing size in their wings, and do not seem much incommoded by the loss—caused, doubtless, by a charge of shot in the rook-shooting, or by the small sharp splinters of flint with which the bird-keepers sometimes load their guns, not being allowed to use shot.Near their nesting-trees their black feathers may be picked up by dozens in the grass; they beat them out occasionally against the small boughs, and sometimes in fighting. If seen from behind, the wings of the rook, as he spreads them and glides, slowly descending, preparatory to alighting, slightly turn up at the edges like the rim of a hat, but much less curved. From a distance as he flies he appears to preserve a level course, neither rising nor falling; but if observed nearer it will be seen that with every stroke of the wings the body is lifted some inches, and sinks as much immediately afterwards.As the black multitude floats past overhead with deliberate, easy flight, their trumpeters and buglemen, the jackdaws—two or three to every company—utter their curious chuckle; for the jackdaw is a bird which could not keep silence to save his life, but must talk after his fashion, while his grave, solemn companions move slowly onwards, rarely deigning to ‘caw’ him a reply. But away yonder at the wood, above the great beech trees, where so vast a congregation is gathered together, there is a mighty uproar and commotion: a seething and bubbling of the crowds, now settling on the branches, now rising in sable clouds, each calling to the other with all his might, the whole population delivering its opinions at once.It is an assemblage of a hundred republics. We know how free States indulge in speech with their parliaments and congresses and senates, their public meetings, and so forth: here are a hundred such nations, all with perfect liberty of tongue holding forth unsparingly, and in a language which consists of two or three syllables indefinitely repeated. The din is wonderful—each republic as its forces arrive adding to the noise, and for a long time unable to settle upon their trees, but feeling compelled to wheel around and discourse. In spring each tribe has its special district, its own canton and city, in its own trees away in the meadows. Later on they all meet here in the evening. It is a full hour or more before the orations have all been delivered, and even then small bands rush up into the air still dissatisfied.This great stream of rooks passing over the hills meets another great stream as it approaches the wood, crossing up from the meadows. From the rampart there may be seen, perhaps a mile and a half away, a dim black line crossing at right angles—converging on the wood, which itself stands on the edge of the table-land from which the steeper downs arise. This second army is every whit as numerous, as lengthy, and as regular in its route as the first.Every morning, from the beech trees where they have slept, safe at that elevation from all the dangers of the night, there set out these two vast expeditionary corps. Regularly the one flies steadily eastward over the downs; as regularly the other flies steadily northwards over the vale and meadows. Doubtless in different country districts their habits in this respect vary; but here it is always east and always north. If any leave the wood for the south or the west, as probably they do, they go in small bodies and are quickly lost sight of. The two main divisions sail towards the sunrise and towards the north star.They preserve their ranks for at least two miles from the wood; and then gradually first one and then another company falls out, and wheeling round, descends upon some favourite field, till by degrees, spreading out like a fan, the army melts away. In the evening the various companies, which may by that time have worked far to the right or to the left, gradually move into line. By-and-by the vanguard comes sweeping up, and each regiment rises from the meadow or the hill, and takes its accustomed place in the return journey.So that although if you casually observe a flock of rooks in the daytime they seem to wander hither and thither just as fancy leads, or as they are driven by passers-by, in reality they have all their special haunts; they adhere to certain rules, and even act in concert, thousands upon thousands of them at once, as if in obedience to the word of command, and as if aware of the precise moment at which to move. They have their laws, from which there is no deviation: they are handed down unaltered from generation to generation. Tradition, indeed, seems to be their main guide, as it is with savage human tribes. They have their particular feeding grounds; and so you may notice that, comparing ten or a dozen fields, one or two will almost always be found to be frequented by rooks while the rest are vacant.Here, for instance, is a meadow close to a farmstead—what is usually called the home-field, from its proximity to a house—here day after day rooks alight and spend hours in it, as much at their ease as the nag or the lambs brought up by hand. Another field, at a distance, which to the human eye appears so much more suitable, being retired, quiet, and apparently quite as full of food, is deserted; they scarcely come near it. The home-field itself is not the attraction, because other home-fields are not so favoured.The tenacity with which rooks cling to localities is often illustrated near great cities where buildings have gradually closed in around their favourite haunts. Yet on the small waste spots covered with cinders and dustheaps, barren and unlovely, the rooks still alight; and you may see them, when driven up from such places, perching on the telegraph wires over the very steam of the locomotives as they puff into the station.I think that neither considerations of food, water, shelter, or convenience, are always the determining factors in the choice made by birds of the spots they frequent; for I have seen many cases in which all of these were evidently quite put on one side. Birds to ordinary observation seem so unfettered, to live so entirely without rhyme or reason, that it is difficult to convey the idea that the precise contrary is really the case.Returning to these two great streams of rooks, which pour every evening in converging currents from the north and east upon the wood; why do they do this? Why not go forth to the west, or to the south, where there are hills and meadows and streams in equal number? Why not scatter abroad, and return according to individual caprice? Why, to go still further, do rooks manoeuvre in such immense numbers, and crows fly only in pairs? The simple truth is that birds, like men, have a history. They are unconscious of it, but its accomplished facts affect them still and shape the course of their existence. Without doubt, if we could trace that history back there are good and sufficient reasons why rooks prefer to fly in this particular locality, to the east and to the north. Something may perhaps be learnt by examining the routes along which they fly.The second division—that which goes northwards, after flying little more than a mile in a straight line—passes over Wick Farm, and disperses gradually in the meadows surrounding and extending far below it. The rooks whose nests are placed in the elms of the Warren belong to this division, and, as their trees are the nearest to the great central roosting-place, they are the first to quit the line of march in the morning, descending to feed in the fields around their property. On the other hand, in the evening, as the army streams homewards, they are the last to rise and join the returning host.So that there are often rooks in and about the Warren later in the evening after those whose habitations are farther away have gone by, for, having so short a distance to fly, they put off the movement till the last moment. Before watches became so common a possession, the labouring people used, they say, to note the passage overhead of the rooks in the morning in winter as one of their signs of time, so regular was their appearance; and if the fog hid them, the noise from a thousand black wings and throats could not be missed.If, from the rising ground beyond the Warren or from the downs beyond that, the glance is allowed to travel slowly over the vale northwards, instead of the innumerable meadows which are really there, it will appear to consist of one vast forest. Of the hamlet not far distant there is nothing visible but the white wall of a cottage, perhaps, shining in the sun, or the pale blue smoke curling upwards. This wooded appearance is caused by timber trees standing in the hedgerows, in the copses at the corners of the meadows, and by groups and detached trees in the middle of the fields.Many hedges are full of elms, some have rows of oaks; some meadows have trees growing so thickly in all four hedges as to seem surrounded by a timber wall; one or two have a number of ancient spreading oaks dotted about in the field itself, or standing in rows. But there are not nearly so many trees as there used to be. Numerous hedges have been grubbed to make the fields larger.Within the last thirty years two large falls of timber have taken place, when the elms especially were thrown wholesale. The old men, however, recall a much greater ‘throw,’ as they term it, of timber, which occurred twice as long ago. Then before that they have a tradition that a still earlier ‘throw’ took place, when the timber chiefly went to the dockyards for the building of those wooden walls which held the world at bay. These traditions go back, therefore, some eighty or a hundred years. One field in particular is pointed out where stood a double row or avenue of great oaks leading to nothing but a farmstead of the ordinary sort, of which there is not the slightest record that it ever was anything but a farmhouse. Now avenues of great oaks are not planted to lead to farmsteads. Besides these, it is said, there were oaks in most of the fields—oaks that have long since disappeared, the prevalent tree being elm.While all these ‘throws’ of timber have successively taken place, no attempt has been made to fill up the gaps; no planting of acorns, no shielding with rails the young saplings from the ravages of cattle. If a young tree could struggle up it could; if not, it perished. At the last two ‘throws,’ especially, young trees which ought to have been saved were ruthlessly cut down. Yet even now the place is well timbered; so that it is easy to form some idea of the forest-like appearance it must have presented a hundred years ago, when rows of giant oaks led up to that farmhouse door.Then there are archaeological reasons, which it would be out of place to mention, why in very ancient days a forest, in all probability, stood hereabouts. It seems reasonable to suppose that in one way or another the regular flight of the second army of rooks passing down into this district was originally attracted by the trees. Three suggestions arise out of the circumstances.The wood in which both streams of rooks roost at night stands on the last slope of the downs; behind it to the south extend the hills, and the open tilled upland plains; below it northwards are the meadows. It has, therefore, much the appearance of the last surviving remnant of the ancient forest. There has been a wood there time out of mind: there are references to the woods of the locality dating from the sixteenth century. Now if we suppose (and such seems to have been really the case) the unenclosed woodlands below gradually cleared of trees—thereby doubtless destroying many rookeries—the rooks driven away would naturally take refuge in the wood remaining. There the enclosure protected them, and there the trees, being seldom or never cut down, or if cut down felled with judgment and with a view to future timber, grew to great size and in such large groups as they prefer. But as birds are creatures of habit, their descendants in the fiftieth generation would still revisit the old places in the meadows.Secondly, although so many successive ‘throws’ of timber thinned out the trees, yet there may still be found more groups and rows of elms and oak in this direction than in any other; that is, a line drawn northwards from the remaining wood passes through a belt of well-timbered country. On other side of this belt there is much less timber; so that the rooks that desired to build nests beyond the limits of the enclosed wood still found in the old places the best trees for their purpose. Here may be seen far more rookeries than in any other direction. Hardly a farmhouse lying near this belt but has got its rookery, large or small. Once these rookeries were established, an inducement to follow this route would arise in the invariable habit of the birds of visiting their nesting-trees even when the actual nesting time is past.Thirdly, if the inquiry be carried still farther back, it is possible that the line taken by the rooks indicates the line of the first clearings in very early days. The clearing away of trees and underwood, by opening the ground and rendering it accessible, must be very attractive to birds, and rooks are particularly fond of following the plough. Now although the district is at present chiefly meadow land, numbers of these meadows were originally ploughed fields, of which there is evidence in the surface of the fields themselves, where the regular ‘lands’ and furrows are distinctly visible.One or all of these suggestions may perhaps account for the course followed by the rooks. In any case it seems natural to look for the reason in the trees. The same idea applies to the other stream of rooks which leaves the wood for the eastward every morning, flying along the downs. In describing the hill district, evidence was given of the existence of woods or forest land upon the downs in the olden time. Detached copses and small woods are still to be found; and it happens that a part of this district, in the line of the eastward flighty belonged to a ‘chase’ of which several written notices are extant.The habits of rooks seem more regular in winter than in summer. In winter the flocks going out in the morning or returning in the evening appear to pass nearly at the same hour day after day. But in summer they often stay about late. This last summer (1878) I noticed a whole flock, some hundreds in number, remaining out till late—till quite dusk—night after night, and always in the same place. It was an arable field, and there they stood close together on the ground, so close that in spots it was difficult to distinguish individuals. They were silent and still, making no apparent attempt at feeding. The only motion I observed was when a few birds arrived and alighted among them. Where they thus crowded together the earth was literally black.It was about three-quarters of a mile from their nesting-trees, but nesting had been over for more than two months. This particular field had recently been ploughed by steam tackle, and was the only one for a considerable distance that had been ploughed for some time. There they stood motionless, side by side, as if roosting on the ground; possibly certain beetles were numerous just there (for it was noticeable that they chose the same part of the field evening after evening), and came crawling up out of the earth at night.The jackdaws which—so soon as the rooks pack after nesting and fly in large flocks—are always with them, may be distinguished by their smaller size and the quicker beats of their wings, even when not uttering their well-known cry. Jackdaws will visit the hencoops if not close to the house, and help themselves to the food meant for the fowls. Poultry are often kept in rickyards, a field or two distant from the homestead, and it is then amusing to watch the impudent attempts of the jackdaws at robbery. Four or five will perch on the post and rails, intent on the tempting morsels: sitting with their heads a little on one side and peering over. Suddenly one thinks he sees an opportunity. Down he hops, and takes a peck, but before he has hardly seized it, a hen darts across, running at him with beak extended like lance in rest. Instantly he is up on the rail again, and the impetus of the hen’s charge carries her right under him.Then, while her back is turned, down hops a second and helps himself freely. Out rushes another hen, and up goes the jackdaw. A pause ensues for a few minutes: presently a third black rascal dashes right into the midst of the fowls, picks up a morsel, and rises again before they can attack him. The way in which the jackdaw dodges the hens though alighting among them, and as it were for the moment surrounded, is very clever; and it is laughable to see the cool impudence with which he perches again on the rail, and looks down demurely, not a whit abashed, on the feathered housewife he has just been doing his best to rob.

As evening approaches, and the rooks begin to wing their way homewards, sometimes a great number of them will alight upon the steep ascent close under the entrenchment on the downs which has been described, and from whence the wood and beech trees where they sleep can be seen. They do not seem so much in search of food, of which probably there is not a great deal to be found in the short, dried-up herbage and hard soil, as to rest here, half-way home from the arable fields. Sometimes they wheel and circle in fantastic flight over the very brow of the down, just above the rampart; occasionally, in the raw cold days of winter, they perch moping in disconsolate mood upon the bare branches of the clumps of trees on the ridge.

After the nesting time is over and they have got back to their old habits—which during that period are quite reversed—it is a sight to see from hence the long black stream in the air steadily flowing onwards to the wood below. They stretch from here to the roosting-trees, fully a mile and a half—literally as the crow flies; and backwards in the opposite direction the line reaches as far as the eye can see. It is safe to estimate that the aerial army’s line of march extends over quite five miles in one unbroken corps. The breadth they occupy in the atmosphere varies—now twenty yards, now fifty, now a hundred, on an average say fifty yards; but rooks do not fly very close together like starlings, and the mass, it may be observed, fly on the same plane. Instead of three or four layers one above the other, the greater number pass by at the same height from the ground, side by side on a level, as soldiers would march upon a road: not meaning, of course, an absolute, but a relative level. This formation is more apparent from an elevation—as it were, up among them—than from below; and looking along their line towards the distant wood it is like glancing under a black canopy.

Small outlying parties straggle from the line—now on one side, now on the other; sometimes a few descend to alight on trees in the meadows, where doubtless their nests were situated in the spring. For it is a habit of theirs, months after the nesting is over and also before it begins, to pay a flying visit to the trees in the evening, callingen routeto see that all is well and to assert possession.

The rustling sound of these thousands upon thousands of wings beating the air with slow steady stroke can hardly be compared to anything else in its weird oppressiveness, so to say: it is a little like falling water, but may be best likened, perhaps, to a vast invisible broom sweeping the sky. Every now and then a rook passes with ragged wing—several feathers gone, so that you can see daylight through it; sometimes the feathers are missing from the centre, leaving a great gap, so that it looks as if the bird had a large wing on this side and on the other two narrow ones. There is a rough resemblance between these and the torn sails of some of the old windmills which have become dark in colour from long exposure to the weather, and have been rent by the storms of years. Rooks can fly with gaps of astonishing size in their wings, and do not seem much incommoded by the loss—caused, doubtless, by a charge of shot in the rook-shooting, or by the small sharp splinters of flint with which the bird-keepers sometimes load their guns, not being allowed to use shot.

Near their nesting-trees their black feathers may be picked up by dozens in the grass; they beat them out occasionally against the small boughs, and sometimes in fighting. If seen from behind, the wings of the rook, as he spreads them and glides, slowly descending, preparatory to alighting, slightly turn up at the edges like the rim of a hat, but much less curved. From a distance as he flies he appears to preserve a level course, neither rising nor falling; but if observed nearer it will be seen that with every stroke of the wings the body is lifted some inches, and sinks as much immediately afterwards.

As the black multitude floats past overhead with deliberate, easy flight, their trumpeters and buglemen, the jackdaws—two or three to every company—utter their curious chuckle; for the jackdaw is a bird which could not keep silence to save his life, but must talk after his fashion, while his grave, solemn companions move slowly onwards, rarely deigning to ‘caw’ him a reply. But away yonder at the wood, above the great beech trees, where so vast a congregation is gathered together, there is a mighty uproar and commotion: a seething and bubbling of the crowds, now settling on the branches, now rising in sable clouds, each calling to the other with all his might, the whole population delivering its opinions at once.

It is an assemblage of a hundred republics. We know how free States indulge in speech with their parliaments and congresses and senates, their public meetings, and so forth: here are a hundred such nations, all with perfect liberty of tongue holding forth unsparingly, and in a language which consists of two or three syllables indefinitely repeated. The din is wonderful—each republic as its forces arrive adding to the noise, and for a long time unable to settle upon their trees, but feeling compelled to wheel around and discourse. In spring each tribe has its special district, its own canton and city, in its own trees away in the meadows. Later on they all meet here in the evening. It is a full hour or more before the orations have all been delivered, and even then small bands rush up into the air still dissatisfied.

This great stream of rooks passing over the hills meets another great stream as it approaches the wood, crossing up from the meadows. From the rampart there may be seen, perhaps a mile and a half away, a dim black line crossing at right angles—converging on the wood, which itself stands on the edge of the table-land from which the steeper downs arise. This second army is every whit as numerous, as lengthy, and as regular in its route as the first.

Every morning, from the beech trees where they have slept, safe at that elevation from all the dangers of the night, there set out these two vast expeditionary corps. Regularly the one flies steadily eastward over the downs; as regularly the other flies steadily northwards over the vale and meadows. Doubtless in different country districts their habits in this respect vary; but here it is always east and always north. If any leave the wood for the south or the west, as probably they do, they go in small bodies and are quickly lost sight of. The two main divisions sail towards the sunrise and towards the north star.

They preserve their ranks for at least two miles from the wood; and then gradually first one and then another company falls out, and wheeling round, descends upon some favourite field, till by degrees, spreading out like a fan, the army melts away. In the evening the various companies, which may by that time have worked far to the right or to the left, gradually move into line. By-and-by the vanguard comes sweeping up, and each regiment rises from the meadow or the hill, and takes its accustomed place in the return journey.

So that although if you casually observe a flock of rooks in the daytime they seem to wander hither and thither just as fancy leads, or as they are driven by passers-by, in reality they have all their special haunts; they adhere to certain rules, and even act in concert, thousands upon thousands of them at once, as if in obedience to the word of command, and as if aware of the precise moment at which to move. They have their laws, from which there is no deviation: they are handed down unaltered from generation to generation. Tradition, indeed, seems to be their main guide, as it is with savage human tribes. They have their particular feeding grounds; and so you may notice that, comparing ten or a dozen fields, one or two will almost always be found to be frequented by rooks while the rest are vacant.

Here, for instance, is a meadow close to a farmstead—what is usually called the home-field, from its proximity to a house—here day after day rooks alight and spend hours in it, as much at their ease as the nag or the lambs brought up by hand. Another field, at a distance, which to the human eye appears so much more suitable, being retired, quiet, and apparently quite as full of food, is deserted; they scarcely come near it. The home-field itself is not the attraction, because other home-fields are not so favoured.

The tenacity with which rooks cling to localities is often illustrated near great cities where buildings have gradually closed in around their favourite haunts. Yet on the small waste spots covered with cinders and dustheaps, barren and unlovely, the rooks still alight; and you may see them, when driven up from such places, perching on the telegraph wires over the very steam of the locomotives as they puff into the station.

I think that neither considerations of food, water, shelter, or convenience, are always the determining factors in the choice made by birds of the spots they frequent; for I have seen many cases in which all of these were evidently quite put on one side. Birds to ordinary observation seem so unfettered, to live so entirely without rhyme or reason, that it is difficult to convey the idea that the precise contrary is really the case.

Returning to these two great streams of rooks, which pour every evening in converging currents from the north and east upon the wood; why do they do this? Why not go forth to the west, or to the south, where there are hills and meadows and streams in equal number? Why not scatter abroad, and return according to individual caprice? Why, to go still further, do rooks manoeuvre in such immense numbers, and crows fly only in pairs? The simple truth is that birds, like men, have a history. They are unconscious of it, but its accomplished facts affect them still and shape the course of their existence. Without doubt, if we could trace that history back there are good and sufficient reasons why rooks prefer to fly in this particular locality, to the east and to the north. Something may perhaps be learnt by examining the routes along which they fly.

The second division—that which goes northwards, after flying little more than a mile in a straight line—passes over Wick Farm, and disperses gradually in the meadows surrounding and extending far below it. The rooks whose nests are placed in the elms of the Warren belong to this division, and, as their trees are the nearest to the great central roosting-place, they are the first to quit the line of march in the morning, descending to feed in the fields around their property. On the other hand, in the evening, as the army streams homewards, they are the last to rise and join the returning host.

So that there are often rooks in and about the Warren later in the evening after those whose habitations are farther away have gone by, for, having so short a distance to fly, they put off the movement till the last moment. Before watches became so common a possession, the labouring people used, they say, to note the passage overhead of the rooks in the morning in winter as one of their signs of time, so regular was their appearance; and if the fog hid them, the noise from a thousand black wings and throats could not be missed.

If, from the rising ground beyond the Warren or from the downs beyond that, the glance is allowed to travel slowly over the vale northwards, instead of the innumerable meadows which are really there, it will appear to consist of one vast forest. Of the hamlet not far distant there is nothing visible but the white wall of a cottage, perhaps, shining in the sun, or the pale blue smoke curling upwards. This wooded appearance is caused by timber trees standing in the hedgerows, in the copses at the corners of the meadows, and by groups and detached trees in the middle of the fields.

Many hedges are full of elms, some have rows of oaks; some meadows have trees growing so thickly in all four hedges as to seem surrounded by a timber wall; one or two have a number of ancient spreading oaks dotted about in the field itself, or standing in rows. But there are not nearly so many trees as there used to be. Numerous hedges have been grubbed to make the fields larger.

Within the last thirty years two large falls of timber have taken place, when the elms especially were thrown wholesale. The old men, however, recall a much greater ‘throw,’ as they term it, of timber, which occurred twice as long ago. Then before that they have a tradition that a still earlier ‘throw’ took place, when the timber chiefly went to the dockyards for the building of those wooden walls which held the world at bay. These traditions go back, therefore, some eighty or a hundred years. One field in particular is pointed out where stood a double row or avenue of great oaks leading to nothing but a farmstead of the ordinary sort, of which there is not the slightest record that it ever was anything but a farmhouse. Now avenues of great oaks are not planted to lead to farmsteads. Besides these, it is said, there were oaks in most of the fields—oaks that have long since disappeared, the prevalent tree being elm.

While all these ‘throws’ of timber have successively taken place, no attempt has been made to fill up the gaps; no planting of acorns, no shielding with rails the young saplings from the ravages of cattle. If a young tree could struggle up it could; if not, it perished. At the last two ‘throws,’ especially, young trees which ought to have been saved were ruthlessly cut down. Yet even now the place is well timbered; so that it is easy to form some idea of the forest-like appearance it must have presented a hundred years ago, when rows of giant oaks led up to that farmhouse door.

Then there are archaeological reasons, which it would be out of place to mention, why in very ancient days a forest, in all probability, stood hereabouts. It seems reasonable to suppose that in one way or another the regular flight of the second army of rooks passing down into this district was originally attracted by the trees. Three suggestions arise out of the circumstances.

The wood in which both streams of rooks roost at night stands on the last slope of the downs; behind it to the south extend the hills, and the open tilled upland plains; below it northwards are the meadows. It has, therefore, much the appearance of the last surviving remnant of the ancient forest. There has been a wood there time out of mind: there are references to the woods of the locality dating from the sixteenth century. Now if we suppose (and such seems to have been really the case) the unenclosed woodlands below gradually cleared of trees—thereby doubtless destroying many rookeries—the rooks driven away would naturally take refuge in the wood remaining. There the enclosure protected them, and there the trees, being seldom or never cut down, or if cut down felled with judgment and with a view to future timber, grew to great size and in such large groups as they prefer. But as birds are creatures of habit, their descendants in the fiftieth generation would still revisit the old places in the meadows.

Secondly, although so many successive ‘throws’ of timber thinned out the trees, yet there may still be found more groups and rows of elms and oak in this direction than in any other; that is, a line drawn northwards from the remaining wood passes through a belt of well-timbered country. On other side of this belt there is much less timber; so that the rooks that desired to build nests beyond the limits of the enclosed wood still found in the old places the best trees for their purpose. Here may be seen far more rookeries than in any other direction. Hardly a farmhouse lying near this belt but has got its rookery, large or small. Once these rookeries were established, an inducement to follow this route would arise in the invariable habit of the birds of visiting their nesting-trees even when the actual nesting time is past.

Thirdly, if the inquiry be carried still farther back, it is possible that the line taken by the rooks indicates the line of the first clearings in very early days. The clearing away of trees and underwood, by opening the ground and rendering it accessible, must be very attractive to birds, and rooks are particularly fond of following the plough. Now although the district is at present chiefly meadow land, numbers of these meadows were originally ploughed fields, of which there is evidence in the surface of the fields themselves, where the regular ‘lands’ and furrows are distinctly visible.

One or all of these suggestions may perhaps account for the course followed by the rooks. In any case it seems natural to look for the reason in the trees. The same idea applies to the other stream of rooks which leaves the wood for the eastward every morning, flying along the downs. In describing the hill district, evidence was given of the existence of woods or forest land upon the downs in the olden time. Detached copses and small woods are still to be found; and it happens that a part of this district, in the line of the eastward flighty belonged to a ‘chase’ of which several written notices are extant.

The habits of rooks seem more regular in winter than in summer. In winter the flocks going out in the morning or returning in the evening appear to pass nearly at the same hour day after day. But in summer they often stay about late. This last summer (1878) I noticed a whole flock, some hundreds in number, remaining out till late—till quite dusk—night after night, and always in the same place. It was an arable field, and there they stood close together on the ground, so close that in spots it was difficult to distinguish individuals. They were silent and still, making no apparent attempt at feeding. The only motion I observed was when a few birds arrived and alighted among them. Where they thus crowded together the earth was literally black.

It was about three-quarters of a mile from their nesting-trees, but nesting had been over for more than two months. This particular field had recently been ploughed by steam tackle, and was the only one for a considerable distance that had been ploughed for some time. There they stood motionless, side by side, as if roosting on the ground; possibly certain beetles were numerous just there (for it was noticeable that they chose the same part of the field evening after evening), and came crawling up out of the earth at night.

The jackdaws which—so soon as the rooks pack after nesting and fly in large flocks—are always with them, may be distinguished by their smaller size and the quicker beats of their wings, even when not uttering their well-known cry. Jackdaws will visit the hencoops if not close to the house, and help themselves to the food meant for the fowls. Poultry are often kept in rickyards, a field or two distant from the homestead, and it is then amusing to watch the impudent attempts of the jackdaws at robbery. Four or five will perch on the post and rails, intent on the tempting morsels: sitting with their heads a little on one side and peering over. Suddenly one thinks he sees an opportunity. Down he hops, and takes a peck, but before he has hardly seized it, a hen darts across, running at him with beak extended like lance in rest. Instantly he is up on the rail again, and the impetus of the hen’s charge carries her right under him.

Then, while her back is turned, down hops a second and helps himself freely. Out rushes another hen, and up goes the jackdaw. A pause ensues for a few minutes: presently a third black rascal dashes right into the midst of the fowls, picks up a morsel, and rises again before they can attack him. The way in which the jackdaw dodges the hens though alighting among them, and as it were for the moment surrounded, is very clever; and it is laughable to see the cool impudence with which he perches again on the rail, and looks down demurely, not a whit abashed, on the feathered housewife he has just been doing his best to rob.

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