UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH

Jjarlington ^/Lemorial LiLrar>

•' % J-

Wild Life

A Southern County

BOSTON
ROBERTS BROTHERS

1879

Cambridge :
Press of John Wilson anu Sox.

PREFACE.

There is a frontier line to civilization in this country
3-et, and not far outside its great centres we come
quickly even now on the borderland of nature. jMod-
ern progress, except where it has exterminated them,
has scarcel}' touched the habits of bird or animal ; so
almost up to the very houses of the metropolis the
nightingale .yearl}' returns to her former haunts. If
we go a few hours' journe}' only, and then step just
be^'ond the highwaj' — where the steam ploughing
engine has left the mark of its wide wheels on the
dust — and glance into the hedgerow, the copse, or
stream, there are nature's children as unrestrained in
their wild, free life as the}' were in the veritable
backwoods of primitive England. So, too, in some
degree with the tillers of the soil : old manners and
customs linger, and there seems an echo of the past
in the breadth of their pronunciation.

But a difficult}' confronts the explorer who would
carr}' away a note of what he has seen, because
nature is not cut and dried to hand, nor easih" classi-
lied, each subject shading graduall}- into another. In
studying the ways, for instance, of so common a bird
as the starling, it cannot be separated from the farm-
house in the thatch of which it often breeds, the
rooks with whom it associates, or the friendl}' sheep
upon whose backs it sometimes rides. Since the
subjects are so closely connected, it is best, perhaps,

iv Preface.

to take the places they prefer for the convenience of
division, and group them as far as possible in the
districts the}' usually frequent.

The following chapters have, therefore, been so
arranged as to correspond in some degree with the
contour of the country. Commencing at the highest
spot, an ancient entrenchment on the Downs has
been chosen as the starting-place from whence to
explore the uplands. Beneath the hill a spring
breaks forth, and, tracing its course downwards,
there next come the village and the hamlet. Still
farther the streamlet becomes a broad brook, flowing
through meadows in the midst of which stands a
solitary farmhouse. The house itself, the garden and
orchard, are visited by various birds and animals. In
the fields immediately around — in the great hedges
and the copse — are numerous others, and an ex-
pedition is made to the forest. Returning to the farm
again as a centre, the rookery remains to be ex-
amined, and the ways and habits of the inhabitants
of the hedges. Finally come the fish and wild-fowl
of the brook and lake ; — finishing in the Vale.

R. J.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

Hares — A Combat : Happiness of x\iiimals : Ants
A lonsr Journey

CHAPTER H.

A Dkought. Ancient (iarrison of tlie Entrenchment:

Traditions of Forest : Curious Ponds : A Mirage . . 15

CHAPTER HI.

The Hillside Hedge: its Birds and Flowers: A Green

Track: The Springhead 40

CHAPTER IV.

The Village. The Washpool : Village Industries :

The Belfry : Jackdaws : Village Chronicles ... 6U

CHAPTER V.

Village Architecture. The Cottage Preacher: Cot-
tage Society : The Shepherd : Events of the Village
Year 79

CHAPTER VI.

The Hamlet. Cottage Astrology : Ghost-Lore : Herbs.
— The Wagon and its Crew. Stiles: The Tryst-
ing-place : The Thatcher : Smugglers : Ague ... 95

vi Oonte7its.

CHAPTER VII.

PAGE

The Farmhouse. Traditions : Hunting Pictures : Tlie
Farmer's Year : Sport : Tlie Auction Festival : A
Summer's Day : Beauty of Wlicat 112

CHAPTER VIII.

Birds of the Farmhouse. Speech of a Starling :
Population of a Gable : The King of the Hedge : The
Thrush's Anvil 132

CHAPTER IX.

The Orchard. Emigrant Martins : The Missel-Thrush :
Caravan Poute of Birds and Animals : A Fox in
Ambush: A Snake in a Clock 150

CHAPTER X.

The Woodpile. Lizards: Sheds and Rickyard : The

Witches' Briar : Insects : Plants, Flowers, and Fruit . 169

CHAPTER XI.

The Home-Field. Hazel Corner : The Divining-Rod :
Rabbits' Holes : The Corncrake : Ventriloquism of
Birds : Hedge-Fruit 187

CHAPTER XII.

The Ash Copse. The Nightingale : Cloud of Starlings :
Hedgehogs. — Heron's Mead : Moor-hens. Among
the Reeds 203

CHAPTER XIII.

The Warren. Rabbit Burrows : Ferrets : The Quarry.
— The Forest. Squirrels: Deer: Dying Rabbit:
A Hawk 218

Contents.

CHAPTER XIV.

PAGE

The Rookery. Building Nests : Young Birds : Eook-
Shooting: Stealing Rooks: Antics in the Air: Mode
of Flight : White Rooks 235

CHAPTER XV.

Rooks Retuknixg to Roost. Vast Flocks : Rook Parlia-
ment : The two Rook Armies and their Routes : Rook
Laws, Traditions, and Ancient History : ' Throws ' of
Timber: Thieving Jackdaws 249

CHAPTER XVI.

Notes on Birds. Nightingales: Chaffinches: Migration:
Packing : Intermarriage : Peewits : Crows : Cuckoo's
Flight: Golden-crested Wren 262

CHAPTER XVII.

Notes on the Year. The Two Natiu-al Eras : Spiders :
The Seasons represented together : A Murderous
Wasp : Feng-shm : The Bird's White Elephant : Hedge-
Memoranda 278

CHAPTER XVIII.

Sxake-Lore. Snakes Swallowing Frogs : Swimming ;
Fond of ililk : Trapping Snakes : Frogs Climbing :
Toads in Trees. — The Brook. The Hatch : King-
fishers' Haunts and Nests 296

CHAPTER XIX.

Course of tue Brook. The Birds' Bathing-place :
Roach : Jacks on their Journeys : Stickleback's Nest :
Woodcock. — The Lake. Herons: Mussels: Reign
of Terror in the Lake ol-S

Contents.

CHAPTER XX.

Wildfowl of the Lake. Sea Birds : Driftwood :
Forces of Nature at Work : Waves : Evaporation :
An Eagle. — Fkost and Sxow. Effect on Birds and
Animals : Water-Meadows : Shooting Stars : Phos-
phorescence : Waterspout : Noises ' in tlie Air ' . .

WILD LIFE IN A SOUTHERN COUNTY.

CHAPTER I.

THE DOWNS THE ENTRENCHMENT WAYS OF LAKKS

HAKES A COMBAT HAPPINESS OF ANIMALS

ANTS A LONG JOURNEY.

The most commanding down is crowned with the
grassy mound and trenches of an ancient earthwork,
from whence there is a noble view of hill and plain.
The inner slope of the green fosse is incUned at an
angle pleasant to recline on, with the head just below
the edge, in the summer sunshine. A faint sound as
of a sea heard in a dream — a sibilant ' sish, sish,' —
passes along outside, dj'ing away and coming again
as a fresh wave of the wind rushes through the
bennets and the dry grass. There is the happy hum
of bees — who love the hills — as the}^ speed by laden
with their golden harvest, a drowsy warmth, and
the delicious odor of wild thj'me. Behind the fosse
sinks, and the rampart rises high and steep — two
butterflies are wheeling in uncertain flight over the
summit. It is only necessary to raise the head a
little way, and the cool breeze refreshes the cheek —
cool at this height while the plains beneath glow
under the heat.

2 Motions of HaivTcs.

Presently a small swift shadow passes across — it
is that of a hawk flying low over the liill. He skirts
it for some distance, and then shoots out into the
air, comes back half-way, and hangs over the fallow
below, where there is a small rick. His wings vi-
brate, striking the air downwards, and onl}' slightly
backwards, the tail depressed counteracting the in-
chnation to glide forwards for a while. In a few
moments he slips, as it were, from his balance, but
brings himself up again in a few 3'ards, turning a
cui-ve so as to still hover above the rick. If he
espies a tempting morsel he drops like a stone, and
alights on a spot almost exactly below him — a
power which few birds seem to possess. Most of
them approach the ground gradually', the plane of
their flight sloping slowly to the earth, and the angle
decreasing ever}- moment till it becomes parallel,
when they have only to drop their legs, shut their
wings, and, as it were, stand upright in the air to
find themselves safe on the sward. By that time
their original impetus has diminished, and they feel
no shock from the cessation of motion. The hawk,
on the contrary, seems to descend nearly in a per-
pendicular line.

The lark does the same, and often from a still
greater height, descending so swiftly that by compar-
ison with other birds it looks as if she must be dashed
to pieces ; but when within a few j'ards of the ground,
the wings are outstretched, and she glides along some
distance before alighting. This latter motion makes
it difficult to tell where a lark actually does alight.
So, too, with snipe : they appear to drop in a corner
of the brook, and you feel positive that a certain

3Iotions of Larks. 3

bunch of rushes is the precise place ; but before you
get there the snipe is up again under 3'our feet, ten
or fifteen 3'ards closer than you supposed, having shot
along hidden by the banks, just above the water, out
of sight.

Sometimes, after soaring to an unusual elevation,
the lark comes down, as it were, in one or two
stages : after dropping say fift}^ feet, the wings are
employed, and she shoots forward horizontally some
wa}', which checks the velocity. Repeating this
twice or more, she reaches the ground safel}'. In
rising up to sing she often traces a sweeping spiral
in the air at first, going round once or twice ; after
which, seeming to settle on the line she means to
ascend, she goes up almost peipendicularly in a
series of leaps, as it were — pausing a moment to
gather impetus, and then shooting upwards till a
mere speck in the sky. When ten or twelve larks
are singing at once, all within a narrow radius — a
thing that may be often witnessed from these downs
in the spring — the charm of their vivacious notes is
greater than when one solitary bird alone discourses
sweet music which is lost in the blue dome overhead.

At that time they seem to feed only a few minutes
consecutively, and then, as if seized with an uncon-
trollable impulse, rush up into the air to deliver a
brief song, descend, and repeat the process for
hours. They have a way, too, of rising but six or
eight yards above the earth, spreading the wings
out and keeping them nearly still, floating slowly
forward, all the while uttering one sweet note softly.
The sward by the roadside appears to have a special
attraction for them ; they constantly come over from

4 Traits of Larks.

the arable fields, alight there, and presently return.
In the early spring, wh^n love-making is in full
progress, the cornfields where the 3'oung green blades
are just showing, become the scene of the most
amusing rivahy. Far as the eye can see across the
ground it seems alive with larks — chasing each
other to and fro, round and round, with excited
calls, flying close to the surface, continually alight-
ing, and springing up again. A gleam of sunshine
and a warm south wind brings forth these merry
antics. So like in general hue is the lark to the
lumps of brown earth that even at a few paces it is
difficult to distinguish her. Some seem alwa3's to
remain in the meadows ; but the majority frequent
the arable land, and especially the cornfields on the
slopes of the downs, where they may be found in
such numbers as rival or perhaps exceed those of
any other bird.

At first sight starlings seem more numerous ; but
this arises from their habit of gathering together in
such vast flocks, blackening the earth where they
alight. But 3'ou may walk a whole day across the
downs and still find larks ever^^where ; so that though
scattered abroad the}" probablj' equal or exceed the
starlings, who show so much more. Thej are by no
means timid, being but little disturbed here : you can
get near enough to watch every motion, and if they
rise it is only to sing. They never seem to know
precisely where they are going to alight — as if, in-
deed, they were nervously' particular and must find a
clod that pleases them, picking and choosing with
the greatest nicet3\

Many other birds exhibit a similar trait : instead

Character of Bird-Life. 5

of perching on the first branch, they hesitate, and
daintily decline the bough not quite to their fanc}'.
Blackbirds will cruise along the whole length of a
hedge before finding a bush to their liking ; the}' look
in several times ere finally deciding. Woodpigeons
will make straight for a tree, and slackj3n speed and
show ever}' sign of choosing it, and suddenl}', without
the slightest cause apparently, go half a mile farther.
The partridge which you could vow had dropped just
over tlie hedge has done no such thing ; just before
touching the ground she has turned at right angles
and gone fift}^ jards down it.

The impression left after watching the motions of
birds is that of extreme mobility — a life of perpetual
impulse checked only by fear. With one or two ex-
ceptions, they do not appear to have the least idea
of saving labor by clearing one spot of ground of
food before flying farther : they just hastily snatch a
morsel and off again ; or, in a tree, peer anxiouslj^
into every crack and crevice on one bough, and away
to another tree a hundred 3'ards distant, leaving fifty
boughs behind without examination. Starlings liter-
ally race over the earth where they are feeding —
jealous of each other lest one should be first, and so
they leave a tract all around not so much as looked
at. Then, having run a little way, they rise and fiy
to another part of the field. Each starling seems
full of envy and emulation — eager to . outstrip his
fellow in the race for titbits ; and so they all miss
much of what the}' might otherwise find. Their life
is so gregarious that it resembles that of men in
cities : watching one another with feverish anxiety —
pushing and bustling Larks are much calmer, and

6 Paths of Hares.

alwaj's appear placid even in their restlessness, and
do not jostle their neighbors.

See — the hawk, after going nearly out of sight,
has swept round, and passes again at no gi-eat dis-
tance : this is a common habit of his kind, to beat
round in wide circles. As the breeze strikes him
aslant his course he seems to fl}" for a short time
partly on one side, like a skater sliding on the outer
edge.

There is a rough grass growing within the enclos-
ure of the earthwork and here and there upon the
hills, which the sheep will not eat, so that it remains
in matted masses. In this the hares make their
forms ; and they must, somehow, have a trick of
creeping into their places, since many of the grass-
blades often arch over, and if they sprang into the
form heedlessl}' this could not be the case, as their
size and weight would crush it down. When startled
by a passer-b}' the hare — unless there is a dog —
goes off in a leisurely fashion, doubtless feeling quite
safe in the length of his legs, and after getting a hun-
dred 3'ards or so sits upon his haunches and watches
the intruder. Their ' runs ' or paths are rather broader
than a rabbit's, and straighter — the rabbit does not
ramble so far from home ; he has his paths across the
meadow to the hedge on the other side, but no farther.
The hare's track maj be traced for a great distance
crossing the Jiills ; but while the roads are longer they
are much fewer in number. The rabbit makes a per-
fect network of ' runs,' and seems always to feed from
a regular path ; the hare apparently feeds anj'wbere,
without much reference to the ' runs,' which he uses
simply to get from one place to another in the most

Hares Boxing. 7

direct line, and also, it ma}' be suspected, as a prom-
enade on which to meet the ladies of his acquaintance
by moonlight.

It is amusing to see two of these animals drum-
ming each other ; they stand on their hind legs (which
are ver}' long) like a dog taught to beg, and strike
with the fore-pads as if boxing, only the blow is de-
hvered downwards instead of from the shoulder. The
clatter of their pads may be heard much farther than
would be supposed. Round and round they go like
a couple waltzing ; now one giving ground and then the
other, the fore-legs striking all the while with marvel-
lous rapidit}'. Presentl}^ they pause — it is to recover
breath only ; and, ' time ' being up, to work they go
again with renewed energy, dancing round and round,
till the observer cannot choose but smile. This trick
they will continue till you are weary of watching.

There are holes on the hills, not above a yard deep
and entering the slope horizontally, which are said
to be used by the hares more in a playful mood than
from any real desire of shelter. Yet they dislike wet ;
most wild animals do. Birds, on the contrary, find
it answer their purpose, grubs and worms abounding
at such times. Though the hare is of a wandering
disposition he usually returns to the same form, and,
if undisturbed, will use it every day for a length of
time, at night perhaps being miles away. If hard
pressed b}' the dogs he will leap a broad brook in fine
style, but he usually prefers to cross b}^ a bridge. In
the evening, as it grows dusk, if you watch from the
elevation of the entrenchment, 3'ou ma}- see these
creatures steal out into the level cornfield below, first
one, then two, presently five or six — looming much

8 Game m the Furrows.

larger than they really arc in the dusk, and seeming
to appear upon the scene suddenly. They have a
trick of stealing along close to the low mounds which
divide arable fields, so that the}' are unobserved till
they turn out into the open gi-ound.

It is not easy to distinguish a hare when crouching
in a ploughed field, his color harmonizes so well with
the clods ; so that an unpractised e^'c generally fails
to note him. An old hand with the gun cannot pass
a field without involuntarily glancing along the fur-
rows made by the plough to see if their regular
grooves are broken b}- any thing hiding therein. The
ploughmen usually take special care with their work
near public roads, so that the furrows end on to the
base of the highway shall be mathematicall}' straight.
They often succeed so well that the furrows look as
if traced with a ruler, and exhibit curious effects of
vanishing perspective. Along the furrow, just as it
is turned, there runs a shimmering light as the e^'e
traces it up. The ploughshare, heavj^ and drawn
with great force, smooths the earth as it cleaves it,
giving it for a time a ' face ' as it were, the moisture
on which reflects the light. If you watch the farmers
driving to market, you will see that they glance up
the furrows to note the workmanship and look for
game ; you may tell from a distance if they espy a
hare by the check of the rein and the extended hand
pointing.

The partridges, too, cower as they hear the noise
of wheels or footsteps, but their brown backs, rounded
as they stoop, do not deceive the eye that knows full
well the irregular shape taken by lumps of earth.
Both hares and rabbits may be watched with ease

Skull of a Hare. 9

from an elevation, and if you remain quiet will rarely
discover your presence while 3-ou are above them.
They keep a sharp look-out all round, but never think
of glancing upwards, unless, of course, some unusual
noise attracts attention.

Looking away from the brow of the hill here over
the rampart, see, yonder in the narrow hollow a flock
is feeding : you can tell even so far off that it is
feeding, because the sheep are scattered about, dot-
ted hither and thither over the surface. It is their
habit the moment they are driven to run together.
Farther away, slowly travelhng up a distant down,
another flock, packed close, rises towards the ridge,
like a thick white mist stealthil}^ ascending the slope.

Just outside the trench, almost within reach, there
lies a small white something, half hidden by the grass.
It is the skull of a hare, bleached by the winds and
the dew and the heat of the summer sun. The skel-
eton has disappeared, nothing but the bony casing
of the head remains, with its dim suggestiveness of
life, polished and smooth from the friction of the
elements. Holding it in the hand, the shadow falls
into and darkens the cavities once filled by the wist-
ful eyes which whilom glanced down from tiie summit
here upon the sweet clover fields beneath. Beasts
of prey and wandering dogs have carried away the
bones of the skeleton, dropping them far apart ; the-
crows and the ants doubtless had their share of
the carcass. Perhaps a wound caused by shot that
did not immediately check his speed, or wasting
disease depriving him of strength to obtain food,
brought him low ; mayhap an insidious enem^' crept
on him in his foiTn.

10 Skull of a Hare.

The J03' in life of these animals — indeed, of almost
all animals and birds in freedom — is very great.
You may see it in every motion : in the lissom bound
of the hare, the playful leap of the rabbit, the song
that the lark and the tinch must sing ; the soft, loving
coo of the dove in the hawthorn ; the blackbird ruf-
fling out his feathers on a rail. The sense of living —
the consciousness of seeing and feeling — is mani-
festly intense in them all, and is in itself an exquisite
pleasure. Their appetites seem ever fresh : they
rush to the banquet spread by Mother Earth with a
gusto that Lueullus never knew in the midst of his
artistic gluttony ; they drink from the stream with
daintj" sips as though it were richest wine. Watch
the birds in the spring ; the pairs dance from bough
to bough, and know not how to express their wild
happiness. The hare rejoices in the swiftness of his
limbs : his nostrils snitf the air, his strong sinews
spurn the earth ; like an arrow from a bow he shoots
up the steep hill that we must clamber slowly, halt-
ing half-wa}' to breathe. On outspread wings the
swallow floats above, then slants downwards with a
rapid swoop, and with the impetus of the motion
rises easily. Therefore it is that this skull here,
13'ing so light in the palm of the hand, with the
bright sunshine falling on it, and a shadow}^ dark-
ness in the vacant orbits of the eyes, fills us with
sadness. ' As leaves on leaves, so men on men de-
cay ; ' how much more so with these creatures whose
generations are so short.

If we look closely into the grass here on the
slope of the fosse it is animated by a busy throng
of insects rushing in hot haste to and fro. They

Journeying^ of an Ant. 11

must find it a lal:)or and a toil to make progress
through the green forest of grass-blade and moss and
heaths and thick th^-me bunches, over-to^jping them
as cedars, but cedars all strewn in confusion, cross-
ing and interlacing, with no path through the jungle.
Watch this ant travelling patiently onward, and
mark the distance traversed b}^ the milestone of a
tall bennet.

First up on a dr}- white stalk of grass lingering
from last autumn ; then down on to a thistle-leaf,
round it, and along a bent blade leading beneath into
the iutricac}' and darkness at the roots. Presentl}',
after a prolonged absence, up again on a dead fibre
of grass, brown and withered, torn up by the sheep
but not eaten : this lies like a bridge across a yawn-
ing chasm — the mark or indentation left b}' the hoof
of a horse scrambling up when the turf was wet and
soft. Half-way across the weight of the ant over-
balances it, slight as that weight is, and down it goes
into the cavit}' : undaunted, after getting clear, the
insect begins to cUmb up the precipitous edge and
again plunges into the wood. Coming to a broader
leaf, which promises an open space, it is found to be
hairy, and therefore impassable except with infinite
trouble ; so the wayfarer endeavors to pass under-
neath, but has in the end to work round it. Then a
breadth of moss intervenes, which is worse than the
vast prickly hedges with which savage kings fence
their cities to the explorer, who can get no certain
footing on it, but falls through and climbs up again
twent}' times, and burrows a way somehow in the
shad}' depths below.

Next, a bunch of thyme crosses the path : and

12 Journey ings of an Ant.

here for a lengthened period the ant goes utterlj^ out
of sight, lost in the interior, slowly groping round
about within, and finally emerging in a glade where
your walking-stick, carelessly- thrown on the ground,
bends back the grass and so throws open a lane to
the traveller. In a straight line the distance thus
painfully traversed may be ten or twelve inches ; cer-
tainly in getting over it the insect has covered not
less than three times as much, probably more — now
up, now down, backwards and sideways, searching
out a passage.

As this process goes on from morn till night
through the long summer's day, some faint idea may
be obtained of the journeys thus performed, against
difficulties and obstacles before which the task of
crossing Africa from sea to sea is a trifle. How, for
instance, does the ant manage to keep a tolerably
correct course, steering straight despite the turns and
labyrinthine involutions of the path? It is never
possible to see far in front — half the time not twice
its own length ; often and often it is necessary to
retrace the trail and strike out a fresh one — a step
that would confuse most persons even in an EngUsh
wood with which they were unacquainted.

Yet by some power of observation, perhaps supe-
rior in this respect to the abiUties of greater creatures,
the tiny thing guides its footsteps without faltering
down yonder to the nest in the hollow on the bank
of the ploughed field. I say by observation, and the
exercise of faculties resembling those of the mind,
because I have many times tried the supposed un-
erring instinct of the ant, and found it fail : there-
fore it must possess a power of correcting error which

Tlie AnVs Highway . 13

is the prerogative of reason. Ants cannot, under
certain conditions, distinguish their own special
haunts. Across a garden path I frequented there
was the track of innumerable ants ; their ceaseless
journeyings had worn a visible path leading from
the border on one side to the border on the other,
where was a tiu}^ hole, into which they each disap-
peared in turn. Happily, the garden was neglected,
otherwise the besom of the gardener would have swept
away all traces of the highway they had made.
AYatching the stream of life pouring swiftly along
the track, it seemed to me that, like men walking
hurriedl}^ in well-known streets, they took no note of
marks or bearings, but followed each other unhesi-
tatingl}' in the groove.

When street-pavements are torn up, the human
stream disperses and flows out on either side till it
discovers by experience the most convenient make-
shift passage. What would be the result if this
Watling-street of the ants were interrupted ? With a
fragment of wood I rubbed out three inches of the
path worn in the shallow film of soil deposited over
the old gravel, smoothing that much down level.
Instantly the crowd came to a stop. The foremost
ant halted at the edge where the groove now termi-
nated, turned round, and had an excited conversation
with the next b}' means of their antennsB ; a third
came up, a fourth and fifth — a crowd collected, in
fact. Now, there was no real obstruction — nothing
to prevent them from rushing across to the spot
where the path recommenced. Why, then, did they
pause ? Wh}', presently, begin to explore, right and
left, darting to one side and then to the other exam-

14 The Aufs Highivay.

ining ? Was it not because an old and acquired habit
was suddenly uprooted? Sm-ely infallible instinct
could have carried them across the space of three
inches without an}^ trouble of investigation.

In a few seconds one of the exploring parties,
making a curve, hit the other end of the path, and
the. news was quickly spread, for the rest followed
almost immediately. Placing a small pebble across
the track on another occasion caused almost the same
amount of interference with the traffic. Near the hole
into which the ants plunged under the border, and on
the edge of the bank, so to say, the path they had
worn was not visible — the ground was hard and did
not take impression ; and there, losing the guidance
of the groove, they often made mistakes. Instead of
hitting the right hole, man}' of them missed it and
entered other holes left \)y boring worms, and after
a short time reappeared to search again, till, finding
the cavern, they hastily plunged into it. This was
particularly the case when a solitary insect came
along. Therefore it would seem that the ant works
its way tentatively, and, observing where it fails, tries
another place and succeeds.

Beautiful Clouds. 15

CHAPTER II.

A DROUGHT ANCIENT GARRISON OF THE ENTRENCH-
MENT TRADITIONS OF FOREST CURIOUS- PONDS

A MIRAGE.

Once now and then in the cycle of the years there
comes a summer which to the hills is almost like a
fever to the blood, wasting and drying up with its
heat the green things upon which animal life depends,
so that drought and famine go hand in hand. The
da3's go by and grow to weeks, the weeks lengthen
to months, and still no rain. The sun pours down
his burning rays, which become hotter as the season
advances ; the sky is blue and beautiful over the
hills — beautiful, but pitiless to the bleating flocks
beneath. The breeze comes up from the south,
bringing with it white clouds sailing at an immense
height, with openings between like azure lakes or
aerial Mediterraneans landlocked by banks of
vapor.

These, if you watch them from the rampart, slowly
dissolve ; fragments break away from the mass as
the edges of the polar glaciers shp oft" the ice-chff
into the sea, only these are noiseless. The fragment
detached grows A^sibly thinner and more translucent,
its margin stretching out in an uneven fringe : the
process is almost exactly like the unravelling of a

16 Effects of Heat.

spotless garment, the threads wavering and twisting
as they are carried along by the current, diminishing
till they fade and are lost in the ocean of blue. This
breaking of the clouds is commonl}- seen in weather
that promises to be fine. From the brow here, you
may note a solitary cloud just risen above the hori-
zon ; it floats slowly towards us ; presently it divides
into several parts ; these, again, fall awa}- in jagged,
irregular pieces lilve flecks of foam. B^'^ the time it
has reached the zenith these flecks have lengthened
out, and shortl}' afterwards the cloud has entirely
melted and is gone. The dehcate hue, the contrast
of the fleecy white with the deepest azure, the ever-
changing form, the light shining through the gauzy
texture, the gentle dreamy motion, lend these clouds
an exquisite beaut}'.

After a while the faint breeze increases, but
changes in character ; it blows steadih'', and the
'sish, sish' of the bennets as it rushes through them
becomes incessant. A sense of oppression weighs on
the chest — in the midst of the wind, on the verge of
the hill, 3'ou sigh for a breath of air. This is not air :
it is simply heat in motion. It is hke the simoom of
the desert — producing a feeling of intense weariness.
Previousl}^ the distant ridges of the downs were
shaded by a dim haze hovering over them, toning the
rolling curves and softening the bolder bluffs. Now
they become distinct ; each line is di-awn clearly and
stands out ; the definition is like that which occurs
before rain, onl}' without the illusion of nearness.

But the hot wind blows and the rain does not
come : the sky is open and free from clouds, less blue
perhaps, but harder in tint. The nights are bright

Si(/ns of Ham. 17

and clear and warm ; you may sit here on the turf
till midnight and find no dew, and still feel the lan-
guid, enervating influence of the hot blast. This
goes in time, and is succeeded by heavy morning
mists hanging hke a cloak over the hills and filling
up the hollows. They roll away as the daj^ advances,
and there is the sun bright as ever in the midst of
the cloudless sk}'. The shepherds say the mists
carry awa^' the rain ; certainly it does not come.

Every now and then promising signs exhibit them-
selves. A black bank of vapor receives the setting
sun, and in the east huge mountainous clouds with
beetling precipices and caverns, in which surelj^ the
thunder lurks, swell and roll upwards ih the hush of
the evening. The farmer unrolls his canvas over
the new-made hayrick, which is not yet thatched,
thinking that a torrent will descend in the night ; but
no, the morrow is the same. It is a peculiarit}' of
our usually changeable climate that when once the
weather has become thoroughly settled either to dry
or wet, no signs of alteration are of any value, true
as the}' may be at other times.

So the heat continues and the drought increases.
The ' land-springs ' breaking out b}' the sides of the
fields have long since disappeared ; the true springs
run feebly as the stores of water in the interior of the
earth gradually grow less. Great cracks open in the
clay of the meadows down below in the vale — rifts,
wade and deep, into which 3^ou may thrust your walk-
ing stick to the handle. Up here on the hills the
turf grows hard and inelastic ; it loses that ' springy '
feel under the foot which makes it so pleasant to
walk upon. The grass becomes dull in tint and
2

18 Sufferings of Sheep.

touches like wire — all the sap dried from it, and
nothing but fibre left. Beneath the chalk is mois-
ture less, and nothing can grow on it. The by-roads
and paths made with the chalk or ' rubble ' glare in
the sunlight, and the flints scattered so thickly about
the ploughed fields seem to radiate heat. All things
that should look green are brown and dust}^ ; even
the leaves on the elms seem dusty. The wheat only
flourishes, tall and strong — deep tinted jellow here,
a ruddy, golden bronze j'onder, with ears full and
heavy, rich and glorious to gaze upon. Insects
multiply and replenish the earth after their fashion
exceedingl}' ; the spiders are busy as may be, not
only those that watch from their webs 13'ing in wait,
but those that chase their prey through the grass as
dogs do game.

But under the beautiful sky and the glorious sun
there rises i;p a pitiful cr^^ the livelong da}' : it is the
quavering bleat of the sheep as their strength slowly
ebbs out of them for the lack of food. Green crops
and roots fail, the aftermath in the meadows beneath
will not grow, week after week ' keep ' becomes scarcer
and more expensive, and there is, in fact, a famine.
Of all animals a starved sheep is the most wretched
to contemplate, not onl}" because of the angularity of
outline, and the cavernous depressions where fat and
flesh should be, but becaiise the associations of many
generations have given the sheep a peculiar claim
upon humanity. They hang entirely on human help.
They watch for the shepherd as though he were their
father ; and when he comes he can do no good, so
that there is no more painful spectacle than a fold
during a drought upon the hills.

Sufferings of Cattle. 19

OncG upon a time, passing on foot for a, distance
of some twenty-live miles across these hills and
grassy uplands, I could not help comparing the scene
to what travellers tell us of desert lands and foreign
famines. The whole of that long summer's day, as
I hastened southwards, eager for -the beach and the
scent of the sea, I passed flocks of dying sheep : in
the hollows by the way their skeletons were here and
there to be seen, the gaunt ribs protruding upwards
in the horrible manner that the ribs of dead creatures
do. Crowds of flies buzzed in the air. Upon the
hurdles perched the crow, bold with over-feasting,
and hartlly turning to look at me, waiting there till
the next lamb should fall and the ' spirit of the beast
go downwards.' Happy England, that experiences
these things so seldom, and even then so locally that
barely one in ten hears of or sees them !

The cattle of course suffer too ; all da}^ long files
of water-carts go down into the hollows where the
springs burst forth, and at such times half the work
of the farm consists in fetching the precious liquid
perhaps a mile or more. Even in ordinary summers
there is often a difficult}' of this kind ; and there are
some farmhouses whose water for household uses
has to be brought full}' half a mile. Of recent years
more wells have been sunk, but there are still too few
for the purpose. The effect of water in determining
the settlements of human beings is clearly shown
here. You may walk mile after mile on the ridges
and pass nothing but a shed ; the houses are in the
hollows, the ' coombes ' or ' bottoms/ as the}^ are called,
where the springs run. The villages on the downs are
generally on a ' bourne,' or winter watercourse.

20 The 'Bourne:

In Slimmer it is a broad winding trench with low
green banks, along whose bed 3'ou may stroll dr^'-
shod, with the yellow corn on either hand reaching
above your head. A few sedges here and there, and
that peculiar whitened appearance left when water
has passed over vegetation, betoken that once there
was a stream. It is like the watercourses and rivers
of the East, which are the roads of the traveller till
the storm comes, and, lo ! in the morning is a rush-
ing flood. Near the village some water is to be seen
in the pond which has been deepened out to hold it,
and which is, too, kept up here by a spring.

In winter the bourne often has the appearance of
a broad brook : you ma}' observe where the current
has arranged the small flints washed in from the
fields by the rain. As the villages are on the lesser
' bournes,' so the towns are placed on the banks of
the rivers these fall into. There may generally be
found a row of villages and hamlets on the last slope
of the downs, where the hills sink finally awa}^ into
the plain and vale, so that if any one went along the
edge of the hills he would naturally think the district
well populated. But if instead of following the edge
he penetrated into the interior he would find the
precise contrary to be the case. Just at the edge
there is water, the ' heads ' of the innumerable
streams that make the vale so verdant. In the
days when wealth consisted chiefly in flocks and
herds, men would naturally settle where there were
' water-brooks.'

When at last the drought ceases, and the rain
does come, it often pours with tropical vehemence ;
so that the soil of the fields upon the slopes is car-

Antique Coins. 21

ried away into the brooks, and the furrows are filled
up leVel with the sand washed ont from the clods,
the lighter particles of earth floating suspended in
the stream, the heavier sand remaining behind.
Then, sometimes, as the slow laborer lingers over
the ground, with e3'es ever bent downwards, he spies
a faint glitter, and picks np an antique coin in his
horn}' fingers : coins are generally found after a
shower, on the same principle that the gold-seekers
wash away the auriferous soil in the ' cradle,' and
lay bare the yellow atoms. Such coins, too, are
sometimes of the same precious metal, ancient and
rude. Sometimes the edge of the hoe clinks against
a coin, thus at last discovered after so many centu-
ries ; 3'et which for j-ears must have lain so near the
surface as to have been turned over and over again
b}' the ploughshare, though unnoticed.

The magnitude of the space enclosed by the earth-
work, the height of the rampart and depth of the
fosse, show that it was originally intended to be
occupied by a large force. With modern artillery,
the mitrailleuse, and above all the breech-loading
rifle, a comparatively small number of men could
hold a commanding position like this : a steep ascent
on three sides, and on the fourth a narrow level
ridge, easily swept by their fire. But when this
entrenchment was thrown up — the chalky earth
and flints probably carried up in osier-baskets, for
they do not seem to have had wheelbarrows in those
times — every single yard of rampart required its
spear or threatening arrow, so as to present an
unbroken rank along the summit. If iiDt, the enemy
approaching to close quarters and attacking several

22 Hill Wells.

places at once would find gaps through which they
might pour into the camp. It seems, therefore,
evident that these works once sheltered an amiy ;
and, looking at their massive character, it is diffi-
cult to resist the conclusion that they were not
temporary trenches merely, but were permanentl}'
garrisoned.

There is another alternative ; they may have been
a place of refuge for the surrounding population in
the nameless wars waged between rival kings. In
that case they would, when resorted to, contain a
still larger number of persons ; women and children
and aged men would be included, and to these must
be added cattle and sheep. Now, reflecting upon
these considerations, and recollecting the remarks
previously made upon the lack of water on these hills,
the very curious question arises, How did such an
army, or such a refugee population with cattle and
horses, supply themselves with sufficient water for
drinking purposes ? The closest examination of the
camp itself fails to yield even a suggestion for an
answer.

There is not the slightest trace of a well, and it
ma}' fairly be questioned whether a well would have
been practicable at that date. For this bold brow
itself stands high enough ; but then, in addition, it is
piled on an elevated plateau or table-land, beneath
which again is the level at which springs break out.
The wells of the district all commence on this table-
land or plain. A depression, too, is chosen for the
purpose, and their depth is about ninety feet on the
average : many are much deeper. But when to this
depth the task of digging right down through the hill

mil Wells. 23

piled up above the plain is added, the difficulty be-
comes extreme.

On walking round the entrenchment at the bottom
of the fosse, and keeping an eye upon the herbage —
the best of all guides — one spot may be noticed where
there grows a little of that ' rowettj ' grass seen in
the damp furrows of the meadows. But there is no
sign whatever of a basin or excavation to catch and
contain this slight moisture — slight indeed, for the
earth is as hard and impenetrable here as elsewhere,
and this faint moisture is evidently' caused by the
rainfall draining down the slope of the rampart.
Looking next outside the works for the source of such
a supply, a spring will be found in a deep coombe, or
bottom, about eight hundred yards — sa}'^, half a mile
— from the nearest part of the fosse, reckoning in a
straight line. Then, in bringing up water from this
spring, which may be supposed to have been done in
skins, a double ascent had to be made : first up on to
the level plateau, here very narrow, next up the steep
down itself. Those only who have had experience of
the iimnense labor of watering cattle on the hills can
estimate the work this must have been. An idea is
obtained of the value of an elevated position in early
warfare, when men for the sake of its advantage were
found wilhng to submit to such toil.

That, however, is not all — . foraging parties fetch-
ing water must have been liable to be cut off from the
main bod}^ ; there were no cannon then to cover a
sortie, and if the enemy were in sufficient force and
took possession of the spring, they could compel an
engagement, or drive the besieged to surrender rather
than endure the tortures of thirst. So that a study of

24 Hunting in the Olden Time.

these English hills — widely different as are the con-
ditions of time and place — may throw a strong hght
upon man}' an incident of ancient history. There are
no traces remaining of any covered way or hollow
dj'ke leading down the slope in the direction of the
spring ; but some such traces do seem to exhibit
themselves in two places — at the rear of the earth-
work along the ridge of the hill, and down the steepest
and shortest ascent. The first does not come up to
the entrenchment, being separated by a wide interval ;
the latter does, and may possibly have been used as a
covered way, though now much obliterated and too
shallow for the purpose. The rampart itself is in
almost perfect preservation ; in one spot the soil has
slightly slipped, but form and outline are everywhere
distinct.

In endeavoring, however, for a moment to glance
back into the unwritten past, and to reconstruct the
conditions of some fourteen or fifteen centuries since,
it must not be forgotten that the downs may then
have presented a different appearance. There is a
tradition lingering still that they were 'in the olden
times almost covered with wood. I have tried to fix
this tradition — to focus it and give it definite shape ;
but, like a mist visible from a distance yet unseen
when 3'ou are actually in it, it refuses to be grasped.
Still, there it is. The ©Id people say that the king — ■
they have no idea which king — could follow the
chase for some forty miles across these hills, through
a succession of copses, woods, and straggling covers,
forming a great forest. To look now from the top
of the rampart over the rolling hills, the idea is dif-
ficult to admit at first. They are apparently bare,

Trees in the Downs. 25

huge billow}' swells of green, with wide hollows, cul-
tivated on the lower levels, but open and unenclosed
for mile after mile, almost without hedges, and seem-
mgl}' treeless save for the gnarled and stunted haw-
thorns— apparentl}^ a bare expanse ; but more minute
acquaintance leads to different conclusions.

Here, to begin with, on the same ridge as the
earthwork and not a quarter of a mile distant, is a
small clump of wind-harassed trees, growing on the
ver}- edge. They are firs and beech, and, though so
thoroughl}- exposed to furious gales, have attained
a fair height even in that thin soil. Beech and fir,
then, can grow here. Awa^' 3'onder on another ridge
is another such a clump, indistinct from the distance ;
though there is a pleasant breeze blowing and their
boughs must sway to it, they appear motionless.
With the exception of the poplar, whose tall top as
it slowty bends to the blast describes such an arc as
to make its motion visible afar, the most violent wind
fails to enable the eye to separate the lines, of light
coming so nearly parallel from the branches of an
elm or an oak, even at a comparatively short dis-
tance. The tree looks perfectly still, though j-ou
know it must be vibrating to the trunk and loosen-
ing the earth with the wrench at its anchoring
roots.

In more than one of the deep coombes there is a
row of elms — out of sight from this post of van-
tage— whose tops are about level with the plain,
where you may stand on the edge and throw a stone
into the rook's nest facing you. On a lower spur,
which juts out into the valley, is a broad ash wood.
Little more than a mile from hence, on the most

26 Trees harked hy Animals.

barren and wildest part of the down, there yet linger
some stunted oaks intersi^ersed among the ash copses
whicli to this da^' are called ' the Chace,' and are
proA^ed by documentary evidence to stand on the site
of an ancient deer forest, A deer forest, too, there
is (though seven or eight miles distant, yet on the
same range of hills) to this very day tenanted by
the antlered stag. Such evidence could be multi-
plied ; but this is enough to establish the fact that
for the whole breadth of the hills to have been cov-
ered with wood is well within possibility.

I may even go further, and say that, if left to
itself, it would in a few generations revert to that
condition ; for this reason : that when a clump of
trees is planted here, experience has shown that it is
not so much the wind or the soil which hinders their
growth as the attacks of animals wild and tame.
Babbits in cold, frosty weather have a remarkable
taste for the bark of the young ash-saplings : they
nibble it. off as clean as if stripped with a knife, of
course frequently killing the plant. Cattle — of which
a few wander on the hills — are equall3' destructive
to the young green shoots or ' tops ' of man}- trees.
Young horses especially will bark almost any smooth-
barked tree, not to eat, but as if to relieve their teeth
by tearing it off. In the meadows all the young
oaks that spring up from dropped acorns out in the
grass are invariably torn up by cattle and the still
closer-cropping sheep. If the sheep and cattle were
removed, and the plough stood still for a century,
ash and beech and oak and hawthorn would reassert
themselves, and these wide, open downs become
again a vast forest, as doubtless they were when the

Deficiency of Moisture. 27

beaver and the marten, the wild boar and the wolf,
roamed over the country'.

This great earthwork, crowning a ridge from
whence a view for many miles conld have been ob-
tained over the tops of the primeval trees, must
then have had a strange!}' ditferent strategical posi-
tion to what it now seemingl}^ occupies in the midst
of almost treeless hills. Possibly, too, the powerful
effect of so many square miles of vegetation in con-
densing vapor may have had a distinct influence
upon the rainfall, and have rendered water more
plentiful than now : a consideration which mvij help
to explain the manner in which these ancient forts
were held.

The general deficiency of moisture characteristic
of these chalk hills is such that it is said agriculture
flourishes best upon them in what is called a ' drop-
ping ' summer, when there is a shower every two or
three days, the soil absorbing it so quickly. For the
grass and ha}' crops down below in the vale, and for
the arable fields there with a stiflT heav}- soil, on the
other hand, a certain amount of dry weather is desir-
able, else the plough cannot work in its seasons nor
the crops ripen or the harvest be garnered in. 80
that the old saying was that in a drought the vale
had to feed the hill, and in a wet 3'^ear the hill had to
feed the vale : which remains true to a considerable
extent, so far at least as the cattle are concerned,
and was probably true of men and their food also
before the importation of corn in such immense
quantities placed both alike free from anxiety on
that account. This deficiency of moisture being
borne in mind, it is a little curious to find ponds of
water on the very summit of the down.

28 Ridge-Ponch.

Scarcely a quarter of a mile from the earthwork,
and on a level with it — close to the clump of firs
and beech alluded to previously — there may be seen
on this warm summer day a broad, circular, pan-like
depression pax-tiall}' filled with water. Being on tlie
very top of the ridge, and only so far sunk as to hold
a sutficient quantitv, there is little or no watershed
to drain into the pond ; neitlier is there a spring or
any other apparent source of supply. It would nat-
urally be imagined that in this exposed position, even
if filled to the brim b}' heav}' storms of rain, a week
of sultry sunshine would evaporate it to the last drop ;
instead of which, excepting, of coui'se, unusually pro-
tracted spells of dry weather such as only come at
lengthy intervals, there will always be found some
water here ; even under the blazing sunshine a shal-
low pool remains, and in ordinary- times the circular
basin is half full.

It is of quite modern construction, and, except
indirectl}^ has no bearing upon the water supply of
the earthwork, having been made within a few years
only for the convenience of the stock kept upon the
hill farms. Some special care is taken in puddling
the bottom and sides to prevent leakage, and a layer
of soot is usually employed to repel boring grubs
or worms which would otherwise make their holes
through and let the water soak into the thirsty chalk
beneath. In wet weather the pond quickly fills ;
once full, it is afterwards kept up by the condensa-
tion of the thick, damp mists, the dew and cloud-
like vapors, that even in the early mornings of the
hot summer da3's so frequently cling about the downs.
These more than supply the waste from evaporation,

Vapors. 29

so that the basin may be called a dew-pond. The
mists that hang about the ridges are often almost
as laden with moisture as a rain-cloud itself. They
deposit a thick layer of tiny bead-like drops upon
the coat of the wayfarer, which seem to cling after
the manner of oil. Though these hills have not the
faintest pretensions to be compared with mountains,
3-et when the rainy clouds hang low they often strike
the higher ridges, which from a distance appear
blotted out entirely, and are then receiving a misty
shower.

Then there rise up sometimes thick masses of va-
por which during the night have gathered over the
brooks and water-meadows, the marshy places of the
vale, and now come borne on the breeze rolling along
the slopes ; and, as these pass over the dew-pond,
doubtless its colder water condenses that portion
which draws down into the depression where it stands.
In winter the vapors chnging about the clumps of
beech freeze to the bough§, forming, not a rime
merely, like that seen in the vale, but a kind of ice-
casing, while icicles also depend underneath. Now,
if a wind comes sweeping across the hill with sudden
blast, these glittering appendages rattle together
loudl}', and there falls a hail of jagged icy fragments.
When one has seen the size and quantity of these,
it become^ more easy to understand the amount of
w\ater which an intangible vapor ma}' carry with it
to be condensed into the pond or congealed upon the
tree.

There is another such a pond half a mile or more
from the earthwork in another direction, but also
on a level, making two upon this high and exposed

30 Dew-Ponds.

down. Many others are scattered about — they have
become more numerous of late years. Several are sit-
uate on the lower plateau, which is also dry enough.
Toiling over the endless hills in the summer heats, I
have often been driven by necessity of thirst to taste
a little of the water contained in them, though well
knowing the inevitable result. The water has a dead
flavor : it is not stagnant in the sense of impurit}',
but dead, even when quite clear. In a few moments
after tasting it, the mouth dries, with a harsh un-
pleasant feeling as if some impalpable dusty particles
had got into the substance of the tongue. This is
caused probably by suspended chalk, of which it
tastes ; for assuaging thirst, therefore, it is worse than
useless in summer : very different is the exquisitely
limpid cool liquid which bubbles out in the narrow
coombes far below.

The indirect bearing of the phenomena of these
dew-ponds upon the water-suppl}^ of the ancient fort
is found in the evidence they supply that under differ-
ent conditions the deposit of moisture here might
have been very much larger. The ice formed upon
the branches of the beech trees in winter proves that
water is often present in the atmosphere in large
quantities : all it requires is something to precipitate
it. Therefore, if these hills were once clothed with
forest, as previously suggested, it appears possible
that the primitive inhabitants, after all, may have,
carried on their agriculture with less difScult}', and
have been able to store up water in their camps with
greater ease, than would be the ease at present. This
may explain the traces of primeval cultivation to be
seen here on the barest, bleakest, and most unprom-

Prehistoric Fields. 31

ising hill-sides. Such traces may be discovered at in-
tervals all along the slope, on the summit, and near
the foot of the down at the rear of the entrenchment.

It is easy to pass almost over them without ob-
serving the nearl}' obliterated marks — the faint
lines left on the surface by the implements of men in
the daj's when the first Csesar was 3'et a living mem-
ory. These marks are like some of the little used
paths which traverse the hills : if 3-ou look a long
way in front you can see them tolerably distinctly.
but under your feet they are invisible, the turf being
only so slightly worn by wayfarers. 80, to find the
signs of ancient fields, look for them from a distance
as 3'ou approach along the slope ; then you will see
squares and parallelograms diml}' defined upon the
sward b}' slightly raised and narrow banks, green
with the grass that has grown over them for so many
centuries.

They have the appearance sometimes of shallow
terraces raised one above the other, rising with the
slope of the down. This terrace formation is perhaps
occasionally artificial ; but in some cases, I think, the
natural conformation of the ground has been taken
advantage of, having seen terraces where not the
faintest trace of cultivation was visible. It is not
always easy either to distinguish between the genuine
enclosures of ancient days and the trenches left after
the decay of comparatively modern fir-plantations,
which it is usual to surround with a low mound and
ditch. Long after the fir trees have died out the
green mound remains ; but there are rules hj which
the two, with a little care, may be distinguished.

The ancient field, in the first place, is generally

32 A Ploughed Field.

very mucli smaller ; and there are usually three or
four or more in close proximity, divided by the faint
green ridges, sometimes roughl}- resembling in ground-
plan the squares of a chess-board. The mound that
once enclosed a fir-plantation is much higher, and
would be noticed by the most casual observer. It
encircles a wide area, often irregular in shape, oval
or circular, and does not present the regular internal
divisions of the other —which, indeed, would be un-
necessary and ont of place in a copse.

It has become the fashion of recent j^ears to break
up the sward of the downs, to pare off the turf and
burn it, and scatter the ashes over the soil newly
turned up b}^ the plough ; the idea being mainly to
keep more sheep b}' the aid of turnips and green
crops than could be grazed upon the grass. In
places it answers — in many others not ; after two or
three crops the yield sometimes falls to next to noth-
ing. There is a ploughed field here right upon the
ridge of the down, close to the ancient earthwork,
where in dry summers I have seen ripening oats
barely a foot high, and barley equally short. With
all the resources of modern agriculture, artificial man-
ure, deeper ploughing, and more complete cleaning,
such results do not seem altogether commensurate with
the labor bestowed. Of course it is not always so,
else the enterprise would be at once abandoned,
But when I come to think of the ancient tillage in
the terraces upon the barren slopes, I find it difficult
to see how with their rude implements the men of
those times could have procured an}^ sustenance from
their soil, unless I suppose the conditions different.

If there was forest all around, to condense the

Site of an Ancient Town. 33

vapors rolling over and deposit a heavy dew or
grateful rainfall, then they may have found the
stubborn earth more fruitful. Trees and brakes,
and thickets, too, -would give shelter and protect the
rising growth from the bitter winds ; while when first
tilled the soil itself would be rich from the decay
of accumulated leaves, dead boughs, and vegetable
matter. So that the terrace gardens may have
3'ielded plentifully then, and were probably sur-
rounded with stockades to protect them from the
ravages of the beasts of the forest. . Now the very
site of the ancient town can scarcely be distin-
guished : the sheep graze, the lambs gambol gayly
over it in the sunshine, and the shepherd dozes hard
by on the slope while his dog watches the flock.

A long day of rain is often followed by a mod-
erately' fine evening — the clouds breaking up as the
sun nears the horizon. It happened one summer
evening, after just such a da^^ of continuous showers,
that I was in a meadow about two miles distant
from the hills. The rain had ceased, and the sky
was clear overhead of all but a thin film of cloud,
through which the blue was visible in places. But
westward there was still a bank of vapor concealing
the sinking sun ; and eastwards, towards the downs,
it was also thick and dark. I walked slowly along
with a gun, on the inner side of a great hedge which
hid the hills, waiting everj' now and then behind
a projecting bush for a rabbit to come out — a
couple being wanted. In heavy rain, such as had
lasted all da^-, they generally remain within their
' buries ' — or if one slips out, he usually keeps on
the bank, sheltei-ed by stoles and trees, and nibbling

34 A Hill apparently enlarged.

a little of the grass that grows there and is com-
paratively dry. But as evening approaches and the
rain ceases, they naturally come forth to break a long
fast, and may then be shot.

Some little time passed thus, when, in sauntering
along, I came to a gap in the hedge, and glanced
through it in the direction of the downs, there partly
visible. The idea at once occurred to me that the
part of the hills seen through the gap was remarkably
high — -^-ery much higher and more mountainous
than any I had ever visited ; and actually, in the
abstraction of the moment, half-intent on the rabbits
and half perhaps thinking of other things, I resolved
to explore that section more thoroughly. Yet, after
walking a few yards further, somehow it seemed
singular that the great elevation of this down should
never previously have been so apparent. In short,
growing curious in the matter, I returned to the gap
and looked again.

There was no mistake : there was the down rising
up against the sk}^ — a huge dusky mountainous hill,
exactly the same in outline as I remembered it, quite
famihar, and yet entirely strange. There was the
old barn near the foot of the slope ; above it the
black line of a low hedge and mound ; on the sum-
mit the same old clump of trees; and lastly, a tall
column of black smoke rising upwards, as if from
a steam plough at work. It was all just the same,
but lifted up into the air — the hill grown into
a mountain. A second and longer gaze failed to
discover the explanation of the apparition : the eye
was completely deceived, and j-et the mind was not
satisfied. But upon getting up into the gap of the

Explanation of the Mirage. 35

hedge, so as to obtain a better view from the mound,
the cause of the ilhision was at once visible.

Looking through the gap was like looking through
a narrow window, only a short section of the hill
being within sight ; from the elevation of the mound
the whole range of hills could be seen at the same
time. Then it became immediately apparent that on
either side of this great mountain the continuation of
the down right and left remained still at its former
level. Upon the central hill a cloud was resting, and
had for the time taken its exact shape. The ridge
itself was dark, and the dark gray vapor harmonized
precisel}^ with its hue ; so that the real hill and the
cloud merged into each other. Either the barn and
clump of trees were reproduced or perhaps enlarged
and distorted by the refraction : the seeming column
of smoke w\as a fragment of a blacker color which
chanced to be in a nearly perpendicular position.
Even when recognized as such, the illusion was still
perfect ; nor could the eye separate the hill from the
unsubstantial vapor.

As I watched it, the apparent column of smoke
bent, and its upper part floated awaj^, enlarging just
as smoke, its upward motion overcome by the wind,
slowly yields to the current. Soon afterwards the
light breeze stretched out one end of the mass of
cloud, began to roll up the other, and presently
lifted it, revealing the real ridge beneath, which
grew momentarily more distinctly defined. Finally,
the mist}^ bank hung suspended over the down, and
slowly sailed eastwards with the wind. Some time
afterwards I saw a similar mirage-like enlargement
of the down by cloudy vapor resting on it and as-

36 Rain and Thunder.

suining its contour ; but the illusion was not so
perfect, because seen from a more open spot, allow-
ing an extended view of the range, and because the
cloud was lighter in color than the hill to which it
clung.

These clouds were, of course, passing at a very low
elevation above the earth : in rain}' weather, although
but a few hundred feet high, the ridges are frequently
obscured with cloud. The old folk in the vale, whose
whole lives have been spent watching and waiting on
the weather, say that the hills ' draw ' the thunder —
that wherever a storm arises it alwa3'S ' draws '
towards them. If it comes from the west it often
splits — one storm going along the ridges to the
south, and the other passing over detached hills to
the northward ; so that the basin between is rarely
visited by thunder overhead. They have, too, an
old superstition — based apparently on a text of
the Bible — that the thunder always rises originally
in the north, though it ma^^ reach them from a differ-
ent direction. For it is their belief also that thunder
' works round ; ' so that after a heavy storm, say in
the afternoon, when the air is cleared to all appear-
ance, they will tell you that the sunshine and calm
are a deception. In a few hours' time, or in the
course of the night, the storm will return, having
' worked round ; ' and indeed in that localit}^ this is
very often the case. It is to be observed that even
a small copse will for a short distance in its rear
quite divert the course of a breeze ; so that a
weathercock placed on the leeside is entirel}' un-
trustworthy : if the wind really blows from the south
and over the copse, the weathercock will sometimes

Narroiv Limits of the Rain. 37

point iu precisely the opposite direction, obeying the
'undertow' of the gale, as it were, drawing back-
wards.

In summer especially, I fancy, an effect is some-
times produced by a variation in the electrical con-
dition of comparatively small areas, corresponding
perhaps with the difference of soil — one becoming
more heated than another. Showers are certainly
often of a remarkabl}' local character : a walk of half
a mile along a road dark from recent rain will fre-
quently bring you to a place where the dust is white
and thick as ever, the line of demarcation sharply
marked across the highway. In winter rain takes a
wider sweep.

From the elevation of the earthwork on the downs

— with a view of mile after mile of plain and vale
below — it is eas}^ on a showery summer da}^ to ob-
serve the narrow Umits of the rain. Dusky stream-
ers, hke the train of a vast dark robe, slope down-
wards from the blacker water-carrying cloud above

— downwards and backwards, the upper cloud
travelling faster than the falling drops. Between
the hill and the rain j-'onder intervenes a broad space
of several miles, and beyond it again stretches a clear
opening to the horizon. The streamers sweep along
a narrow strip of country which is drenched with
rain, while on either side the sun is shining.

It seems reasonable to imagine that in some way
that strip of country acts differently for the time
being upon the atmosphere immediately above it. So
singularly local are these conditions, sometimes, that
one farmer will show you a flourishing crop of roots
which was refreshed by a heavy shower just in the

38 Streamers of Sunshine.

nick of time, wliile his neiglibor is loudly complain-
ing that he has had no rain. When the sky is over-
cast— large masses of cloud, with occasional breaks
passing slowly across it at a considerable elevation
without rain — sometimes through these narrow slits
long beams of light fall aslant upon the distant fields
of the vale. They resemble, only on a greatly
lengthened scale, the beams that may be seen in
churches of a sunn}- afternoon, ftiUing from the upper
windows on the tiled floor of the chancel, and made
visible by motes in the air. So through such slits in
the cloudy roof of the sky the ra^'^s of the sun shoot
downwards, made visible on their passage by the
moisture or the motes floating in the atmosphere.
They seem to linger in their place as the clouds drift
with scarcely perceptible motion ; and the laborers
say that the sun is sucking up water there.

In the evening of a fine day the mists may be
seen from hence as they rise in the meadows far
beneath : beginning first over the brooks, a long
white winding vapor marking their course, next
extending over the moist places and hollows. Higher
in the air darker bars of mist, separate and distinct
from the white sheet beneath them, perhaps a hundred
feet above it, gradually come into sight as they grow
thicker and blacker, one here, one yonder — long and
narrow in shape. These seem to approach more
nearly in character to the true cloud than the mist
which hardly rises higher than the hedges. The latter
will sometimes move or draw across the meadows
when there is no apparent wind, not sufficient to
sway a leaf, as if in obedience to light and partial
currents created by a variation of temperature in
different parts of the same field.

Reflection of Light. 39

Once now and then, looking at this range of hills
from a distance of two or three miles on moonless
nights, wlien it has been sufficiently clear to distin-
guish them, I have noticed that the particular down
on which the earthwork is situate shows more dis-
tinctl}^ than the others. By da}' no difference is ap-
parent ; but sometimes by night it seems slightly
lighter in hue, and stands out more plainly. This
may perhaps be due to some unobserved character-
istic of the herbage on its slope, or possiblj^ to the
chalky subsoil coming there nearer to the surface.
The power of reflecting light possessed by the earth,
and varied hy different soils or by vegetation, is worth
observation.

40 Telloiv-hammers.

CHAPTER III.

THE HILLSIDE HEDGE : ITS BIKDS AND FLOWERS A

GREEN TRACK THE SPRINGHEAD.

A LOW thick hawttiorn hedge runs along some dis-
tance below the earthwork just at the foot of the
steepest part of the hill. It divides the greensward
of the down from the ploughed land of the plain,
which stretches two or three miles wide, across to
another range opposite. A few stunted ash trees
grow at intervals among the bushes, which are the
favorite resort of finches and birds that feed upon
the seeds and insects they find iu the cultivated fields.
Most of these corn-fields being separated onl^^ by a
shallow trench and a bank bare of underwood, the
birds naturally flock to the few hedges they can find.
So that, although but low and small in comparison
with the copse-like hedges of the vale, the hawthorn
here is often alive with birds : chaffinches and spar-
rows perhaps in the greatest numbers, also yellow-
hammers.

The color of the yellow-hammer appears brighter
in spring and earl}^ summer : the bird is aglow with
a beautiful and brilliant yet soft yellow, pleasantly
shaded with brown. He perches on the upper
boughs of the hawthorn or on a rail, coming up from
the corn as if to look around him — for he feeds

Hill Blagples. 41

chiefly on the ground — and uttering two or three
short notes. His plumage gives a hfe and tint to
the hedge, contrasting so brightly with the vegetation
and with other birds. His song is but a few bars
repeated, yet it has a pleasing and soothing effect in
the drowsy warmth of summer. Yellow-hammers
haunt the corn-fields principally, though they are not
absent from the meadows.

To this hedge the hill-magpie comes : some mag-
pies seem to keep almost entirely to the downs, while
others range the vale, though there is no apparent
diiferenee between them. His peculiar uneven and,
so to say, flickering flight, marks him at a distance
as he jauntily journeys along beside the slope. He
visits everj^ fir copse and beech clump on his way,
spending some time, too, in and about the hawthorn
hedge, which is a favorite spot. Sometimes in the
spring, while the corn is yet short and green, if you
glance carefully through an opening in the bushes or
round the side of the gateway, ^-ou may see him busy
on the ground. His restless excitable nature betra3-s
itself in every motion : he walks now to the right a
couple of yards, now to the left in a quick zigzag, so
working across the field towards you ; then with a
long rush he makes a lengthy traverse at the top of
his speed, turns and darts away again at right angles,
and presentl}^ up goes his tail and he throws his head
down with a jerk of the whole bod}^ as if he would
thrust his beak deep into the earth. This habit of
searching the field apparentl^^ for some favorite grub
is evidence in his favor that he is not so entirely
guilty as he has been represented of innocent blood :
no bird could be approached in that way. All is

42 Wood-^ngeons.

done in a jerky, nervous manner. As he turns side-
wa^-s the white feathers show with a flash above the
green corn ; another movement, and he looks all
black.

It is more difficult to get near the larger birds upon
the downs than in the meadows, because of the ab-
sence of cover ; the hedge here is so low, and the
gateway open and bare, without the overhanging oak
of the meadows, whose sweeping boughs snatch and
retain wisps of the hay from the top of a wagon-load
as it passes under. The gate itself is dilapidated —
perhaps only a rail, or a couple of ' flakes ' fastened
together with tar-cord : there are no cattle here to
require strong fences.

In the 3'oung beans yonder the wood-pigeons are
busy — too busy for the farmer ; they have a habit, as
they rise and hover about their feeding-places, of sud-
denl}^ shooting up into the air, and as suddenly sink-
ing again to the level of their course, describing a
line roughl}' resembling the outline of a tent if drawn
on paper, a cone whose sides droop inward somewhat.
The}' do this too, over the ash woods where they
breed, or the fii- trees ; it is not done when thej-^ are
travelling straight ahead on a journe}'. .

The odor of the bean-flower lingering on the air
in the earl^^ summer is delicious ; in autumn when
cut the stalk and pods are nearly black, so that the
shocks on the side of the hills show at a great distance.
The sward, where the slope of the down becomes almost
level beside the hedge, is short and sweet and thickl}'
strewn with tiny flowers, to which and to the clover
the bees come, settling, as it were, on the ground,
so that as you walli you nearly step on them, and

Where to look for Floivers. 43

they rise from under the foot, with a shrill, angry-
buzz.

On the other side the plough has left a narrow
strip of green running along the hedge : the horses,
requiring some space in which to turn at the end of
each furrow, could not draw the share any nearer,
and on this narrow strip the weeds and wild flowers
flourish. The light sulphur-colored charlock is scat-
tered everywhere — out among the corn, too, for no
cleaning seems capable of eradicating this plant ; the
seeds will linger in the earth and retain their germin-
ating power for a length of time, till the plough brings
them near enough to the surface, when they are sure
to shoot up unless the pigeons find them. Here also
ma}- be found the wild garlic, which sometimes gets
among the wheat and lends an onion-like flavor to
the bread. It grows, too, on the edge of the low
challv}' banks overhanging the narrow wagon track,
whose ruts are deep in the rubble — worn so in
winter.

Such places, close to cultivated land 3'et undis-
turbed, are the best in which to look for wild flowers ;
and on the narrow strip beside the hedge and on the
crumbling rubble bank of the rough track may be
found a greater variety than hy searching the broad
acres be3'ond. In the season the large white bell-like
flowers of the convolvulus will climb over the haw-
thorn, and the lesser striped kind will creep along the
ground. The pink pimpernel hides on the very verge
of the corn, which presentl}^ will be strewn with the
beautiful ' blue bottle ' flower, than whose exquisite
hue there is nothing more lovely in our fields. The
great scarlet poppy with the black centre, and ' eggs

44 Flint-diggers.

and butter' — curious name for a flower — will, of
course, be there : the latter often flourishes on a
high elevation, on the verj^ ridges, pro\-ided only
the plough has been near.

At irregular intervals along the slope there are
deep hollows — shallow near the summit, deepening
and widening as they sink, till by the hedge at the
foot they broaden out into a little valle}' in them-
selves. These great green grooves furrow the sides
of the downs everywhere, and for that reason it is
best to waUi either on the ridge or in the plain at the
bottom : if jo\x follow the slope half-way up you are
continually descending and ascending the steep sides
of these gulleys, which adds much to the fatigue.
At the mouths of the hollows, close to the hedge,
the great flint stones and lumps of chalky rubble
rolling down from above one by one in the passage
of the 3'ears have accumulated ; so that the turf there
is almost hidden as by a stony cascade.

On the ridge here is a thicket of furze, grown
shrub-like and strong, being untouched hj wood-
man's tool ; here the rabbits have their ' buries,' and
be careful how 3'ou thread 3'our wa}' betw^een the
bushes, for the ground is undermined with innumera-
ble flint-pits long abandoned. This is the favorite
resort of the chats, who perch on the furze or on the
heaps of flints, perpetually iterating their one note,
from which their name seems taken. Within the
enclosure of the old earthwork itself the flint-diggers
have been at work : they occasional!}^ find a few
fragments of rusty metal, doubtless relics of ancieut
weapons ; but little worth preserving is ever found
there. Such treasures are much more frequently

Warrens. 45

discovered in the covn-fields of the plain immediately
beneath than here in the camp where one would nat-
urall}' look for them.

The laborers wlio pick up these things often put
an immensely exaggerated value on them : a worn
Roman coin of the commonest kind, of which hun-
dreds are in existence, the}' imagine to be worth a
week's wages, till after refusing its real value from
a collector they finally visit a watchmaker whose
aquafortis test proves the supposed gold to be brass.
So, too, with fossils : a man brought me a common
echinus, and expected a couple of ' crownds ' at least
for it ; nothing could convince him that, although
not often found just in that district, in others they
were numerous. The ' crownd ' is still the unit, the
favorite coin of the laborers, especially the elder
folk. They use the word something in the same
sense as the dollar, and look with regret upon the
gradual disappearance of the broad silver disc with
the figure of 'St. Gaarge' conquering the dragon.

Everywhere across the hills traces of the old
rabbit-warrens may be found in the names of places.
Warren Farms, Warren Houses, &c., are common;
and the term is often added to the names of the vil-
lages to distinguish an outl3ing part of the parish.
From the earthwork the sites of four such warrens,
now cultivated, can be seen within the radius of as
many miles. Rabbits must have swaniied on the
downs in the olden times. In the season when the
couch and weeds are collected in heaps and burned,
the downs — were it not for the silence — might seem
the scene of a mightj^ confiict, the smoke of the
battle rolling along the slopes and hanging over the

46 A Green Track.

plains, rising up from tlie hollows in dusky clouds.
But the cannon of the shadowy army give forth no
thunderous roar. These smouldering fires are not,
of course, peculiar to the hills, but the smoke shows
so much more at that elevation.

At evening, if 3-ou watch the sunset from the top
of the rampart, as the red disc sinks to the horizon
and the shadows lengthen — the trees below and the
old barn throwing their shadows up the slope — the
eye is deceived by the position of the hght, and
the hill seems much higher and steeper, looking down
from the summit, than it does at noonday. It is an
optical delusion. Here on the western side the grass
is still dry — in the deep narrow vallej's behind the
sun set long since over the earthwork and ridge, and
the dew is already' gathering thickly on the sward.

A broad green track runs for many a long, long
mile across the downs, now following the ridges,
now winding past at the foot of a grassy slope, then
stretching away through corn-field and fallow. It is
distinct from the wagon-tracks which cross it here
and there, for these are local onl}', and if traced up
land the wayfarer presently in a maze of fields, or
end abruptly in the rickyard of a lone farmhouse.
It is distinct from the hard roads of modern con-
struction which also at wide intervals cross its course,
dusty and glaringly white in the sunshine. It is not
a farm track — you may walk for twenty miles along
it over the hills ; neither is it the king's highway.

For seven long miles in one direction there is not
so much as a wayside tavern ; then the traveller finds
a little cottage, with a bench under a shady syca-
more and a trough for a thirsty horse, situate where

A Walk across the Doivns. 47

three such modern roads (also lonety enough) cross
the old green track. Far apart, and far away from
its course hidden among their ricks and trees a few-
farmsteads stand, and near them perhaps a shep-
herd's cottage : otherwise it is an utter solitude, a
vast desert of hill and plain ; silent too, save for the
tinkle of a sheep-bell, or, in the autumn, the moan-
ing hum of a distant threshing-machine rising and
falling on the wind.

The origin of the track goes back into the dim-
mest antiquit}" : there is evidence that it was a
military road when the fierce Dane carried fire and
slaughter inland, leaving his ' nailed bark ' in the
creeks of the rivers, and before that when the Saxons
pushed up from the sea. The eagles of old Rome,
perhaps, were borne along it, and yet earlier the
chariots of the Britons may have used it — traces of
all have been found ; so that for fifteen centuries this
track of the primitive peoples has maintained its
existence through the strange changes of the times,
till now in the season the cumbrous steam-ploughing
engines jolt and strain and pant over the uneven turf.

To-daj', entering the ancient wa}', eight miles or
so from the great earthwork, hitherto the central
post of observation, I turn my face once more
towards its distant rampart, just visible showing
over the hills, a line drawn against the sky. Here,
whence I start, is another such a camp, with mound
and fosse ; beyond the one I have more closel}' de-
scribed some four miles is still a third, all connected
by the same green track running along the ridges
of the downs and entirely independent of the roads
of modern days. They form a chain of forts on the

48 Wild Tht/me.

edge of the down-land overlooking the vale. At
starting the track is but just distinguishable frorA
the general sward of the hill : the ruts are over-
grown with grass — but the tough 'tussocky' kind,
in which the hares hide, avoids the path, and by its
edge marks the M'aj. Soon the ground sinks, and
then the corn-fields approach, extending on either
hand — barle}^ alread}^ bending under the weight of
the awn, swajing with every gentle breath of air,
stronger oats and wheat, broad squares of swede and
turnip and dark-gTeen mangold.

Plough and harrow press hard on the ancient
track, and yet dare not encroach upon it. With
varying width, from twenty to fift^' j-ards, it runs
hke a green riband through the sea of corn — a
width that allows a flock of sheep to travel easily
side b}" side, spread abroad, and snatch a bite as
the}" pass. Dr^'^, shallow trenches full of weeds, and
low narrow mounds, green also, divide it from the
arable land ; and on these now and then grow storm-
stunted hawthorn bushes, gnarled and aged. On
the banks the wild thyme grows in great bunches,
emitting an exquisite fragrance — luxurious cushions
these to rest upon beneath the shade of the haw-
thorn, listening to the gentle rustle of the wheat as
the wind rushes over it. Awa}^ j^onder the shadows
of the clouds come over the ridge, and glide with
seeming sudden increase of speed down hill, then
along the surface of the corn, darkening it as they
pass, with a bright band of light following swiftly
behind. It is gone, and the beech copse away there
is blackened for a moment as the shadow leaps it.
On the smooth bark of those beeches the shepherd

Young Partridges. 49

lads have cut their names with their great clasp-
knives.

Sometimes in the evening, later on, when the
wheat is nearly ripe, such a shepherd lad will sit
under the trees there ; and as 3'ou pass along the
track comes the mellow note of his wooden whistle,
from which poor instrument he draws a sweet sound.
There is no tune — no recognizable melody' : he plays
from his heart and to himself. In a room doubtless
it would seem harsh and discordant ; but there, the
player unseen, his simple notes harmonize with the
open plain, the looming hills, the rudd}' sunset, as if
striving to express the feehngs these call forth.

Resting thus on the wild thyme under the haw-
thorn, partly hidden and quite silent, we may see
stealing out from the corn into the fallow hard by
first one, then two, then half a dozen or more young
partridge chicks. With them is the anxious mother,
watching the sky chiefl}', lest a hawk be hovering
about ; nor will she lead them far from the cover of
the wheat. She stretches her neck up to hsten and
look : then, reassured, walks on, her head nodding
as she moves. The little ones crowd after, one
darting this wa}-, another that, learning their les-
son of life — how and where to find the most suitable
food, how to hide from the enemy : imitation of the
parent developing hereditary inclinations.

At the slightest unwonted sound or movement,
she first stretches her neck up for a hurried glance,
then, as the laboring folk say, ' quats ' — i.e. crouches
down — and in a second or two runs swiftly to cover,
using ever}' little hollow of the ground skilfully for
concealment on the way, like a practised skh'misher.

50 Sparroivs in the Corn.

The ants' nests, which are so attractive to partridges,
are found in great numbers along the edge of the
corn-fields, being usually made on ground that is
seldom disturbed. The low mounds that border the
green track are populous with ants, whose nests are
scattered thicklj- on these banks, as also beside the
paths and wagon-tracks that traverse the fields and
are not torn up by the plough. An}' beaten track
such as this old path, however green, is generally
free from them on its surface : ants avoid placing
their nests where they ma}^ be trampled upon. This
may often be noticed in gardens : there are nests at
and under the edge of the paths, but none where
people walk. It is these nests in the banks and
mounds which draw the partridges so frequently
from the middle of the fields to the edges where
they can be seen ; they will come even to the banks
of frequented roads for the eggs of which they are
so fond.

Now that their eourting-time is over, the larks do
not sing so continuously. Later on, when the ears
of wheat are ripe and the reapers are sharpening
their sickles, if you walk here, with the corn on
either hand, every ten or twenty yards a cloud of
sparrows and small birds will rise from it, literally
hiding the hawthorn bush on which they settle, so
that the green tree looks brown. Wait a little while,
and with defiant chirps back they go, disappearing
in the wheat.

The sparrows will sometimes flutter at the top of
the stalk, hovering for a few moments in one spot, as
if trying to perch on the ears ; then, gi'asping one
with their claws, they sink with it and bear it to the

Gipsies. 51

ground, where they can revel at their leisure. A place
where a hailstorm or heav^^ rain has beat down ana
levelled the tall corn flat is the favorite spot for these
birds ; they rise from it in hundreds at a time. But
some of the finches are probabl}' searching for tlie
ripe seeds of the weeds that spring up among the
corn ; they find also a feast of insects.

Leaving now the gnarled hawthorn and the cush-
ion of thyme, I pass a deserted sheep-pen, where
in the early ^-ear the tender lambs were sheltered
from the snow and wind. Mile after mile, and still
no sign of human life — everywhere silence, solitude.
Hill after hill and plain after plain. Presently the
turf is succeeded by a hard road — flints ground down
into dust bj^ broad wagon-wheels bearing huge
towering loads of wool or heavy wheat. Just here
the old track happens to answer the purposes of
modern civilization. Past this, and again it reverts
to turf, leaving now the hills for a mile or two to
cross a plain l^'ing between a semicircle of downs ;
and here at last are hedges of hawthorn and hazel
and stunted crab tree.

Round black marks upon the turf, with gray ashes
scattered about and half-consumed sticks, show
where the gipsies have recently bivouacked, sheltered
somewhat at night bj' the hedges. Near by is an
ancient tumulus, on which grows a small yet obvi-
ously aged sj'camore tree, stunted by wind and
storm, and imder it the holes of rabbits — drilling
their habitations into the tomb of the unknown
warrior. In his day, perhaps, the green track wound
through a pathless wood long since cleared. Soon the
hedges all but disappear, the ground rises once more,

52 Source of a Brook.

nearing the hills ; and here the way widens ont — first
fifty, then a hundred 3'ards across — green sward
dotted with furze and some brake fern, and bunches
of tough dry grass. Above on the summit is another
ancient camp, and below two more turf-grown tumuli,
low and shaped like an inverted bowl. Many more
have been ploughed down, doubtless, in the course
of the years : sometimes still, as the share ti'avels
through the soil there is a sudden jerk, and a scrap-
ing sound of iron against stone.

The ploughman eagerly tears away the earth, and
moves the stone to find a thin jar, as he thinks — in
fact, a funeral urn. Like all uneducated people, in
the far East as well as in the West, he is imbued
with the idea of finding hidden treasure, and breaks
the urn in pieces to discover — nothing ; it is empty.
He will carry the fragments home to the farm, when,
after a moment's curiosity, they will be thrown aside
with potsherds, and finally used to mend the floor of
the cowpen. The track winds away yet further, over
hill after hill ; but a summer's day is not long enough
to trace it to the end.

In the narrow valley far below the frowning ram-
parts of the ancient fort that has been more specially
described a beautiful spring breaks forth. Three
irregularly circular green spots, brighter in color than
the dry herbage around, mark the outlets of the
crevices in the earth through which the clear water
finds its wa}^ to the surface. Three tiny threads
of water, each accompanied b}' its riband of verdant
grasses, meander downwards some few yards, and
then unite and form a little stream. Then the water
in its channel first becomes visible, ghstening in the

The Water-ivagtail. 53

sun ; for at the sources the aquatic grasses bend
over, growing thiclvly, and hide it from view. But
pressing these down, and parting them with the hand,
you ma}' trace the exact place where it rises, gently
oozing forth without a sound.

Lower down, where the streamlet is stronger and
has worn a groove — now rushing over a floor of tiny
flints, now partly buoj'ed up and chafing against a
smooth round lump of rubble — there is a pleasant
murmur audible at a short distance. Still ftirther
from the source, wliere, grown wider, the shallow
water shoots swiftly over a steeper gradient, the un-
dulations of its surface cross each other, plaiting a
pattern like four strands interw^oven. The resem-
blance to the pattern of four rushes which the coun-
tr}; children delight to plait together as they wander
by the brooks is so close as almost to suggest the
derivation of the art of weaving rushes, flags, and
willows by the hand. The sheep grazing at will in
the coombe eat oflf' the herbage too closely to permit
of many flowers. Where the springs join and irri-
gate a broader strip there grows a little watercress,
and some brooklime, said to be poisonous and occa-
sionally mistaken for the cress ; a stray cuckoo flow^er
shows its pale lilac petals in spring, and a few bunches
of rushes are scattered round. They do not reach
any height or size ; they seem chy and sapless, to-
tally unlike the tall green succulent rush of the
meadows far below.

A water-wagtail comes now and then ; sometimes
the yellow variety, whose color in the spring is so
bright as to cause the bird to resemble the yellow-
hammer at the first glance. But besides these the

54 Dreaming hy the Spring.

spring-head is not much frequented by birds ; per-
haps the clear water attracts less visible insect life,
and, the shore of the stream being hard and dry,
there is no moisture where grubs and worms may
work their wa3\ Behind the fountain the steep green
wall of the coombe rises almost perpendicularly — so
steep as not to be climbed without exertion. At the
summit are the corn-fields of the level plain which
here so suddenly sinks without warning. The plough
has been drawn along all but on the verj^ edge, and
the tall wheat nods at the verge. From thence a
strong arm might send a flat round stone skimming
across to the other side of the narrdw hollow, and its
winding course is apparent.

Like a deep groove it cuts a channel up towards
the hills, becoming narrower as it approaches ; and
the sides diminish in height, till at the neck a few
rails and a gate can close it, being scarcely broader
than a wagon-track. There, at the foot of the down,
it ends, overlooked by a barn, the home of innumera-
ble sparrows, whose nests are made under the eaves,
everywhere their keen eyes can find an aperture large
enough to squeeze into.

Looking down the steep side of the coombe, near
the bottom there runs along a projecting ledge, or
terrace, like a natural footwa}'. On the opposite
side is another corresponding ledge, or green turf-
covered terrace ; these follow the windings of the
valley, decreasing in width as it diminishes, and grad-
uall}'' disappearing. In its broadest part one of them
is used as a wagon-track, for which it is admirably
adapted, .being firm and hard, even smoother than
the bottom of the coombe itself. If it were possible

A Landscape. 65

to imagine the waters of a tidal river rising and ebb-
ing up and down tliis hollow these ledges would
form its banks. Their regular shape is certainly
remarkable, and they are not confined to this one
place. Such steep-sided narrow hollows are found
all along the edge of this range of downs, where
they slope to the larger valley which stretches out
to the horizon. There are at least ten of them in a
space of twelve miles, many having similar springs
of water and similar terrace-like ledges, more or less
perfect. Towards the other extremity of this par-
ticular eoombe — where it widens before opening on
the valley — the spring spreads and occupies a wider
channel, beside which there is a strip of osier-bed.

When at the fountain-head, and looking down the
current, the end of the eoombe westwards away from
the hills seems to open to the sky ; for the ground
falls rapidl}^, and the trees hide any trace of human
habitation. The silent hills close in the rear, capped
b}' the old fort ; the silent corn-fields come to the
very edge above ; the silent steep green walls rise on
either hand, so near together that the swallows in
the blue atmosphei'e high overhead onlj- come into
sight for a second as they shoot swiftly across. In
the evening the red sun, enlarged and bulging as if
partly flattened, hangs suspended, as it seems, at the
very mouth of the trough-like hollow. It is natural
in the silence and the solitude for thoughts of the
lapse of time to arise — of the endless centuries
since, by some slow geological process, this hollow
was formed. Fifteen hundred years ago the men of
the camp above came hither to draw water ; still the
spring oozes and flows, and the sun sinks at the

56 The Stream groivs Larger.

western mouth. So too, doubtless, the sun shone
into the hollow in the evening cycle upon cj'cle ere
then.

Up the blade of grass here a tiny white-shelled
snail has crawled, feeling in its dull, dim way that
evening is approaching. The coils of the little shell
are exquisitely turned — the workmanship is perfect ;
the creature within, there can be no question, is
equally perfect in its way and finds a joy in the
plants on which it feeds. On the ground below,
hidden among the fibres near the roots of the grass,
lies another tiny shell ; but it is empty, the life that
once animated it has fled — whither? Presently the
falling dew will condense upon it, and at the opening
one round drop will stand ; after a while to add its
mite to the ceaseless flow of the fountain. Could any
system of notation ever express the number of these
creatures that have existed in the past ? If time is
measured bj' the duration of life, reckoned by their
short spans eternit}' upon eternity has gone by. To
me the greatest marvel is the countless, the infinite
number of the organisms that have existed, each with
its senses and feelings, whose bodies now help to
build up the solid crust of the earth. These tiny
shells have had millions of ancestors : Nature seems
never weary of repeating the same model.

In the osier-bed the brook-sparrow chatters ; there,
too, the first pollard willow stands, or rather leans,
hollow and aged, across the water. This tree is
the outpost of a thousand others that line the banks
of the stream for mile after mile yonder down in the
valley. How quickly this little fountain grows into a
streamlet and then to a considerable brook ! — with-

Hau'tliorn and Elder. 57

out appaventlv receiving the waters of any feeders.
In the first half-mile it swells snfflcientlj, if bayed
up properly, to drive a mill — as, indeed, many of the
springs issuing from these coombes do just below the
mouth. In little more than a mile, measuring by its
windings, it becomes broad enough to require some
effort to leap it, and then deepens into a fair-sized
brook.

The rapidity of the increase is accounted for by
the fact that every field it passes whose surface in-
clines towards it is a watershed from which an unseen
but considerable drainage takes place. When no
brook passes through the fields the water stands and
soaks downwards, or evaporates slowly : directly a
ditch is opened it fills, and the effect of a stream
is not only to collect water till then unseen, but to
preserve it from evaporation or disappearance into
the subsoil. Probably, if it were possible to start an
artificial stream in many places, after awhile it would
almost keep itself going at times, provided, of course,
that the bottom was not porous. Below the mouth
of the coombe the water has worn itself a channel
quite six feet deep in the chalk — washing out the
flints that now lie at the bottom. Hawthorn bushes
bend over it, and great briers uncut since their first
shoot was put forth ; the elder, too, grows luxuriousl}-,
whose white flowers, emitting a rich but sickly odor,
the village girls still gather to make elder-water to
remove freckles. These bushes hide the deep gully
in which the current winds its way — so deep that no
cattle can get down to drink.

A cottage stands on the very edge a little further
along ; the residents do not dip their water from the

58 Trout.

running stream, but have made a small pool beside
it, with which uo doubt it communicates, for the pool,
or ' dipping place,' is ever fall of cool, clear, limpid
water. The plan is not without its advantages,
because the stream itself, though usually clear, is
liable to become foul from various causes — such as a
flood, when it is white from suspended chalk, or from
cattle higher up above the gull}' coming to slake their
thirst and stirring the sand}' grit of the bottom. But
the little pool long remains clear, because the water
from the stream to enter it has to strain itself through
the narrow partition of chalk}^ rubble.

So hmpid is the current in general, that the idea
of seeing trout presently when it shall widen out
naturall}' arises. But before then the soil changes,
and clay and loam spoil the clean, sandy, or gravell}^
bottom trout delight in. In one such stream hard by,
however, the experiment of keeping trout has been
tried, and with- some success : it could be done with-
out a doubt if it were not that after a short course all
the streams upon this side of the downs enter the
meadows, and immediately run over a mud bottom.
With care, a few young fish were maintained in the
upper waters, but it was only as an experiment ; left
to themselves they would speedily disappear, and of
course no angling could be thought of.

On the opposite side of the range of hills, where
they decline in height somewhat, but still roll on for
a great distance, the contrary is the case. The springs
that run in that du-ection pass over a soil that gives a
good clear bottom, and gradually assume the charac-
ter of rivers ; narrow, indeed, and shallow, but clear,
sweet, and beautiful. There, as 3'ou wander over

The Angler. 59

the down, and push 3'our wa}- through one of those
extensive nutwoods which grow on the hills, acres
and acres of hazel bushes, suddenly 3'ou come to
the edge of a steep cliff, falling all but perpendicu-
larly, and lo ! at the foot is a winding river, bordered
by broad green meads dotted with roan-and-white
cattle.

Here in the season the angler maj' be seen skil-
fully tempting the speckled trout. Across the meads
a grove of elm and oak, and the dull red pf old houses
diml}' seen between, and the low dark crenellated
tower of a village church. Behind the downs rise
again, their slopes in spring a mass of color — green
corn, squares of bright yellow mustard, bright crim-
son trifolium, and brown fallows.

60 Poplars and Firs.

CHAPTER IV.

THE VILLAGE THE WASHPOOL VILLAGE INDUSTRIES

THE BELFKY JACKDAWS VILLAGE CHKOK-

ICLES.

A SHORT distance below the cottagers ' ' dipping-
place ' jnst mentioned, the same stream, leaving the
deep groove or gull}^, widens suddenly into a large
clear pool, shaded by two tall fir trees and an equally
tall poplar. The tops of these trees are nearh' level
with the plain above the verdant valle}' in which the
stream flows, and, being side by side, the difference
in the manner of their growth is strongly contrasted.
The branches of the fir gracefull}' depend, as if
weighted downwards by the burden of the heavy deep
green fringe they carr}^ — a fringe tipped with bullion
in the spring, for the young shoots are of so light a
green as to shade into a pale yellow. The branches
of the poplar, on the contrary, point upwards — grow-
ing nearly vertically ; so that the outline of the tree
resembles the tip of an immensel}' exaggerated artist's
brush. This formation is ill adapted for nest-build-
ing, as it affords little or no surface to build on, and
so the poplar is but seldom used hy birds.

The pool beneath is approached b}' a broad track —
it cannot be called road — trampled into innumerable
small holes by the feet of flocks of sheep, driven down

Sheep dislike Water. 61

here from the hills for the periodical washing. At
that time the roads are full of sheep daj' after da}', all
tending in the same direction ; and the little wayside
inns, and those of the village which closely adjoins
the washpool, find a sudden increase of custom from
the shepherds. There is no written law regulating
the washing, but custom has fixed it as firmh' as an
Act of Parliament : each shepherd knows his day, and
takes his turn, and no one attempts to interfere with
the monopol}- of the men who throw the sheep in.
The right of wash here is upheld as sternly as if it
were a bulwark of the Constitution.

Sometimes a land-owner or a farmer, anxious to
make improvements, tries to enclose the approach or
to utilize the water in fertilizing meadows, or in one
way or another to introduce an innovation. He
thinks perhaps that education, the spread of modern
ideas, and the fact that laborers travel nowada^'s, have
weakened the influence of tradition. He finds him-
self entirely mistaken : the men assemble and throw
down the fence, or fill up the new channel that has
been dug ; and, the general sympath}' of the parish
being with them and the interest of the sheep-farmers
behind them to back them up, they alwa^'s carrj- the
day, and old custom rules supreme.

The sheep greatly dislike water. The diflSculty is
to get them in ; after the dip they get out fast
enough. Only if driven by a strange dog, and unable
to escape on account of a wall or enclosure, will they
ever rush into a pond. If a sheep gets into a brook
and cannot get out — his narrow feet sink deep into
the mud — should he not be speedily relieved he will
die, even though his head be above water, from chill

62 The Spinning-wheel.

and fright. Cattle, on the other hand, love to stand
in water on a warm day.

In rubbing together and struggling with the shep-
herds and their assistants a good deal of wool is torn
from the sheep and floats down the current. This
is caught by a net stretched across below, and finally
comes into the possession of one or two old women
of the village, who seem to have a prescriptive right
to it, on pa^^ment of a small toll for beer-money.
These women are also on the look-out dui'ing the
year for such stray scraps of wool as they can pick
up from the bushes beside the roads and lanes much
travelled by sheep — also from the tall thistles and
briars, where they have got through a gap. This
wool is more or less stained by the weather and by
particles of dust, but it answers the purpose, which
is the manufacture of mops.

The old-fashioned wool mop is still a necessary
adjunct of the farmhouse, and especially the dairy,
which has to be constantly ' swilled ' out and mopped
clean. With the ancient spinning-wheel the}^ work
up the wool thus gathered ; and so, even at this late
day, in odd nooks and corners, the wheel may now
and then be found. The peculiar broad-headed nail
w^hich fastens the mop to the stout ashen ' steale,' or
handle, is also made in the village. I spell ' steale '
by conjecture, and according to pronunciation. It is
used also of a rake : instead of a rake- handle they
say rake-steale. Having made the mops, the women
go round with them to the farmhouses of the district,
knowing their regular customers — who prefer to buy
of them, not only as a little help to the poor, but
because the mops are really very strongty made.

Wo7'kers in Wood. 63 ■

In the meadows of the vfile the waters of the
same stream irrigate numerous scattered withy-beds,
pollard willow-trees, and tall willow-poles growing
thickly in the hedges b}- the brook. The most suit-
able of these poles are purchased from the farmers
by the willow handicraftsmen of the village up here,
to be split into thin flexible strips and plaited or
woven into various articles. These strips are made
into ladies' work-baskets and endless knick-knacks.
The flexibilit}^ of the willow is surprising when re-
duced to these narrow pieces, scarcely thicker than
stout paper. This industry- used to keep many hands
emploj'ed. There were willow-looms in the village,
and to show their dexterity the weavers sometimes
made a shirt of willow — of course only as a curiosity.
The development of straw weaving greatly interfered
with this business ; and now it is followed bj' a few
onlv, who are chiefly engaged in preparing the raw
material to go elsewhere.

From the ash woods on the slopes, and the copses,
of the fields, large ash-poles are brought, which one
or two old men in the place spend their time splitting
up for ' flakes ' — a ' flake ' being a frame of light
wood, used after the manner of a hurdle to stop a
gap, or pitched in a row to part a field into two.
Hurdle-making is another industry ; but of late years
hurdles have been made on a large scale by master
carpenters in the market-towns, who employ several
men, and undersell the village maker.

The wheelwright is perhaps the busiest man in
the place ; he not only makes and mends wagon
and cart wheels, and the body of those vehicles,
but does almost every other kind of carpentering.

64 Workers in Iron.

Sometimes he combines the trade of a builder with
it — if he has a little capital — and puts up cottages,
barns, sheds, &c., and his 3'ard is strewn with tim-
ber. There is generally a mason, who goes about
from farm to farm mending walls and pig-sties, and
all such odd jobs, working for his own hand.

The blacksmith of course is there — sometimes
more than one — usually with plenty to do ; for
modern agriculture uses three times as much ma-
chinery and ironwork as was formerly the case. At
first the blacksmiths did not understand how to
mend many of these new-fangled machines, but they
have learned a good deal, though some of the pieces
still have to be replaced from the implement factories
if broken. Horses come trooping in to have new
shoes put on. Sometimes a village blacksmith ac-
quires a fame for shoeing horses which extends far
beyond his forge, and gentlemen residing in the
market towns send out their horses to him to be
shod. He still uses a ground-ash sapling to hold
the short chisel with which he cuts off the glowing
iron on the anvil. He keeps bundles of the j'oung,
pliant ground-ash sticks, which twist easilj- and are
peculiarly tough; and, taking one of these, with
a few turns of his wrist winds it round the chisel so
as to have a long handle. One advantage of the
wood is that it ' gives ' a little and does not jar when
struck.

The tinker, notwithstanding his vagrant habits, is
sometimes a man of substance, owning two or more
small cottages, built out of his savings by the village
mason — the materials perhaps carted for him free by
a friendly' farmer. When sober and steady, he has

An Old Eope-walk. 65

a capital trade : his hands are never idle. Milk-tins,
pots, pans, &c., constantl}' need mending ; he travels
from door to door, and ma}' be seen sitting on a stool
in tlie eart-honse in the fiirmyard, tinkering on his
small portable anvil, with two or three cottagers'
children — sturd}', yelloAv-haired 3'oungsters — in-
tentl}' watching the mj' ster}^ of the craft.

In despite of machine-sewn boots and their cheap-
ness, the village cob])ler is still an institution, and
has a considerable number of patrons. The laborers
working in the fields need a boot that will keep out
the damp, and for that .purpose it must be hand-
sewn : the cobbler, having lived among them all his
life, understands what is wanted better than the
artisan of the cities, and knows how to stud the
soles with nails and cover toe and heel with plates
till the huge boot is literally iron-clad. Even the
children wear boots which for their size are equally
heavy : many of the working farmers also send
theirs to be repaired. The only thing to be remem-
bered in deaUng with a village cobbler is, if you
want a pair of boots, to order them six months
beforehand, or you will be disappointed. The busi-
ness occupies him about as long as it takes a ship-
wright to build a ship.

Under the trees of the lane that connects one part
of the village with another stands a wooden post, once
stout, now decaying ; and opposite it at some distance
the remnants of a second. This was a rope-walk, but
has long since fallen into disuse ; the tendency' of the
age having for a long time been to centralize indus-
tr}^ of all kinds. It is true that of late 3'ears many
manufacturers have found it profitable to remove

66 The Village Church.

their workshops from cities into the country, the rent
of premises being so much less, water to be got by
sinking a well, less rates, and wages a little cheaper.
They retain a shop and office in the cities, but have
the work done miles away. But even this is distinctly
associated with centralization. The workmen are
raerelj' paid human machines ; they do not labor for
their own hands in their own little shops at home,
or as the rope-maker slowly walked backwards here,
twisting the hemp under the elms of the lane, after-
wards, doubtless, to take the manufactured article
himself to market and otfer his wares for sale from a
stand in the street.

The millwright used to be a busy man here and
there in the villages, but the railwa3's take the wheat
to the steam mills of cities, and where the water-mills
yet run, ironwork has supplanted wood. In some few
places still the women and girls are employed making
gloves of a coarse kind, doing the work at home in
their cottages ; but the occupation is now chiefly
carried on nearer to the great business centres than
this. Another extinct trade is that of the bell
foundry. One village situate in the hills hard by
was formerly celebrated for the church bells cast
there, many of which may be found in far distant
towers ringing to this day.

Near the edge of the hill, just above the washpool,
stands the village church. Old and gray as it is, yet
the usage of the pool by the shepherds dates from
still earlier days. Like some of the farmhouses
further up among the hills, the tower is built of flints
set in cement, which in the passage of time has be-
come almost as hard as the flint itself. The art of

The Church Tower. 67

chipping flint to a face for the purpose of making
lines or patterns in walls used to be carried to great
perfection, and even old garden walls may be seen
so ornamented.

The tower is large and tall, and the church a great
one ; or so it appears in comparison with the small
population of the place. But it may be that when it
was built there were more inhabitants ; for some signs
remain that here — as in many other such villages —
the people have decreased in numbers : the popula-
tion has shifted elsewhere. An adjacent parish l^'ing
just under the downs has now not more than fifty in-
habitants ; yet in the olden time a church stood there

— long since dismantled : the ancient churchyard is
an orchard, no one being permitted to dig or plough
the gi'ound.

Entering the tower by the narrow nail-studded
door, it is not so easy to ascend the winding geo-
metrical stone staircase, in the confined space and the
darkness, for the arrow-slits are choked with cobwebs
and the dust of years. A faint fluttering sound
comes from above, as of wings beating the air in a
confined space — it is the jackdaws in the belfiy ;
just as the starlings and swallows in the huge old-
fashioned chimney's make a similar murmuring noise
before they settle. Passing a slit or two — the only
means of marking the height which has been reached

— and the dull tick of the old clock becomes audible :
slow and accompanied with a peculiar grating vibra-
tion, as if the frame of the antique works had grown
tremulous with age. The dial-plate outside is square,
placed at an angle to the perpendicular lines of the
tower : the gilding of the hour-marks has long since

68 Fagoting.

tarnished and worn awaj" before the storms, and
t\\Qy are now barely distinguishable ; and it is diffi-
cult to tell the precise time b}' the solitary pointer,
there being no minute hand.

Past another slit, and the narrow stone steps —
}'ou must take care to keep close to the outer wall
where the}- are widest, for they narrow to the central
pillar — are scooped out by the passage of feet dur-
ing the centuries ; some, too, are broken, and others
are slippery with something that rolls and gives under
the foot. It is a number of little sticks and twigs
which have fallen down from the jackdaws' nests
above : higher up the steps are literally covered with
them, so that you have to kick them aside before you
can convenient!}' ascend. These sticks are nearly
all of the same size, brown and black from age and
the loss of the sap, the bark remaining on. It is sur-
prising how the birds contrive to find so many suit-
able to their purpose, searching about under the
trees ; for they do not break them off, but take those
that have fallen.

The best place for finding these sticks — and those
the rooks use — is where a tree has been felled or a
thick hedge cut some months before. In cutting up
the smaller branches into fagots the men necessarily
frequently step on them, and so break off innumerable
twigs too short to be tied up in the bundle. After
the}' have finished fagoting, the women rake up the
fragments for their cottage fires ; and later on, as the
spring advances, the birds come for the remaining
twigs, of which great quantities are left. These they
pick up from among the grass ; and it is noticeable
that the}^ like twigs that are dead but not decayed :

Village Time. 69

they do not care for them when green, and reject
them when rotten. Have' the}- discovered that green
wood shrinks in drying, and that rotten wood is
nntrnstworthy ? Rooks, jackdaws, and pigeons find
their bnilding materials in this way, where trees or
hedges liave been cut ; j'et even then it must require
some patience. The}' use also a great deal of mate-
rial rearranged from the nests of last year — that is,
rooks and jackdaws.

Stepping out at last into the belfry, be careful how
you tread ; for the flooring is worm-eaten, and here
and there planks are loose : keep your foot, if possi-
ble, on the beams, which at least are fixed. It is a
gidd}' height to fall from down to the stone pavement
below, wherfr the ringers stand. Their ropes are
bound round with list or cloth, or some such thing,
for a better grasp for the hand. High as it is to this
the first floor, if 3-0U should attempt to ring one of
these bells, and forget to let the rope slip quickly, it
will jerk you almost to the ceiling : thus many a man
has broken his bones close to the font where he was
christened as a child.

Against the wall up here are iron clamps to
strengthen the ancient fabric, settling somewhat in
its latter da3-s ; and, opening the worm-eaten door
of the clock-case — the key stands in it — you may
study the works of the old clock for a full hour, if so
it please you ; for the clerk is away laboring in the
field, and his aged wife, who produced the key of
the church and pointed the nearest way across the
meadow, has gone to the spring. The ancient build-
ing, standing lonely on the hill, is utterly deserted ;
the creak of the boards under foot or the grate of

70 Bell-ri7igers.

the rusty hinge sounds hollow and gloomy. But a
streak of sunlight enters from the arrow-slit, a bee
comes in through the larger open windows with a
low inquiring buzz ; there is a chattering of sparrows,
the peculiar shiill screech of the swifts, and a ' jack-
jaek-daw-jack-daw '-ing outside. The sweet scent
of clover and of mown grass comes upon the light
breeze — mayhap the laughter of haymakers passing
through the churchyard underneath to their work,
and idhng by the way as haymakers can idle.

The name of the maker on the clock shows that it
was constructed in a little market town a few miles
distant a century ago, before industries were cen-
tralized and local life began to lose its individuahty.
There are sparrows' nests on the wooden case over it,
and it is stopped now and then b}' feathers getting
into the works : it matters nothing here ; Festina lente
is the village motto, and time is little regarded. So,
if you wish, take a rubbing, with heelball borrowed
from the cobbler, of the inscriptions round the rims
of the great bells ; but be careful even then, for the
ringers have left one carelessly tilted, and if the rope
should slip, nineteen hundred weight of brazen metal
may jam you against the framework.

The ringers are an independent body, rustics
though they be — monopolists, not to be lightly
ordered about, as man^^ a vicar has found to his
cost, having a silent belfry for his pains, and not
a man to be got, either, from adjacent villages. It
is about as easy to knock this sohd tower over with
a walking-stick as to change village customs. But
if towards Christmas you should chance to say to
the ringers that such and such a chime seemed rung

Jackdaws. 71

pleasantly, be certain that 3-011 will hear it night after
night coming with a throbbing jo3'fulness through the
starlit air — ever}^ note of the peal rising clear and
distinct at the exact moment of time, as if struck
b^' machiner}^ yet with a quivering undertone that
dwells on the ear after the wave of sound has gone.
Then go out and walk in the garden or field, for it is
a noble music ; remember, too, that it is a music
that has echoed from the hills hundreds and hun-
dreds of years. Rude men as thej^ are, these bell-
ringers gratefully respond to the least appreciation
of their art.

A few more turns about the spiral staircase, and
then step out on the roof. The footstep is deadened
by the dull-colored lead, oxidized from exposure.
The tarnished weathercock above revolves so stiffl}^
as to be heedless of the light air, — onl}' facing a
strong breeze. The irreverent jackdaws, now wheel-
ing round at a safe distance, build in everj^ coign of
vantage, no matter how incongruous their intrusion
may be — on the wings of an angel, behind the
flowing robe of St. Peter, or yonder in the niche,
gra}' and lichen-grown, where stood the Virgin Mary
before iconoclastic hands dashed her image to the
ground. If a gargoyle be broken or choked so that
no water comes through it, they will use it, but not
otherwise. And they have nests, too, just on the
ledge in the thickness of the wall, outside those bel-
fry windows which are partially boarded up. Any-
where, in short, high up and well sheltered, suits the
jackdaw.

When nesting time is over, jackdaws seem to leave
the church and roost with the rooks ; they use the

72 2 Tomb.

tower much as the rooks do their hereditary group
of trees at a distance from the wood they sleep in at
other seasons. How came the jackdaw to make its
nest on church towers in the first place ? The bird
has become so associated with churches that it is
dilBcult to separate the two ; yet it is certain that
the bird preceded the building. Archaeologists tell
us that stone buildings of any elevation, w^hether for
rehgious purposes or defence, were not erected till
a comparatively late date in this island. Now, the
low huts of primeval peoples would hardly attract
the jackdaw. It is the argument of those who be-
lieve in immutable and infallible instinct that the
habits of birds, &c., are unchangeable: the bee
building a cell to-day exactly as it built one cen-
turies before our era. Have we not here, however,
a modification of habit?

The jackdaw could not have originally built in tall
stone buildings. Localizing the question to this
country', may we not almost fix the date wiien the
jackdaw began to use the church, or the battlements
of the tower, by marking the time of their first erec-
tion? The jackdaw was clever enough, and had rea-
son sufficient to enable him to see how these high,
isolated positions suited his peculiar habits ; and I
am bold enough to think that if the bee could be
shown a better mode of building her comb, she would
in time come to use it.

In the church3^ard, not far from the foot of the
tower where the jackdaws are so busy, stands a great
square tomb, built of four slabs of stone on edge
and a broader one laid on th-e top. The inscription
is barely legible, worn away by the ironshod heels of

Tlie Oldest Inhabitant. 73

generations of ploiighboj's kicking against it in tlicir
rude play, and where they have not chipped it, filled
with lichen. The sexton says that this tomb in the
olden days was used as the pay-table upon which the
poor received their weekly dole. His father told
him that he had himself stood there hungiy, with
the rest — not broken-down cripples and widows, but
strong, hale men, waiting till the loaves were placed
upon the broad slab, so that the living were fed lit-
erallv over the grave of the dead.

The farmers met every now and then in the vestry
and arranged how many men each would find work
for — or rather partial work — so that the amount of
relief might be apportioned. Men coming fronj a
distance, or even from the next parish, were jeal-.
ously excluded from settling, lest there should be
more mouths to feed ; if a family, on the other hand,
could by any possibilit}' be got rid of, it was exiled.
There were more hands than work ; now the case
is precisely opposite. A grim witness, this old
tomb, to a traditionary fragment in that history of
the people w^hich is now placed above a mere list
of monarch s.

The oldest person in the village was a woman —
as is often the case — reputed to be over a hundred :
a tid}' cottager, well tended, feeble in body, but
brisk of tongue. She reckoned her own age by the
thatch of the roof. It had been completely new
thatched four times since she could recollect. The
first time she was a great girl, grown up : her father
thatched it again just before he died ; her husbaud
did it the third time, and the fourth was three years
ago. That made about a hundred years altogether.

74 Reckoning hy Thatchings.

The straw had lasted better lately-, because there
were now no great elm trees to drip, drip on it in
wet weather. Cottagers are frequently really- squat-
ters, building on the waste land beside the highway
close to the hedgerow, and consequently under the
trees. This dripping on the roof is very bad for
thatch. Straw is remarkably durable, even when
^exposed to the weather, if good in the first place
and well laid on. It may be reckoned to last twenty
years on an average, perhaps more. Four thatch-
ings, then, made eight}^ years ; add three years since
the last thatching ; and the old lady suj^posed she
was seventeen or eighteen at the first — i.e. just a
ceijtur}^ since. But in all likelihood her recollections
of the first thatching were confused and uncertain :
she was perhaps eight or ten at that time, which
would reduce her real age to a little over mnet3\
A great part of the A'illage had twice been destroyed
by fire since she could remember. These fires are
or were singularly destructive in villages — the
flames running from thatch to thatch, and, as they
express it, ' wrastling' across the intervening spaces.
A pain is said to ' wrastle,' or shoot and burn.
Such fires are often caused by wood ashes from the
hearth thrown on the dust-heap while yet some em-
bers contain sufficient heat to fire straw or rubbish.

The old woman's memories were wholly of gossipy
family history ; I have often found that the ver3' aged
have not half so much to tell as those of about sixty
to seventy years. The next oldest was a man about
eighty ; all he knew of history was that once on
a time some traitor withdrew the flints from the
muskets of the English troops, substituting pieces

Traditions. 75

of wood, which, of course, would not ignite the
powder, and thus they were beaten. Of date, place,
or persons he had no knowledge. He 'niinded' a
great snowfall when he was a boy, and helping to
drag the coaches out and making a firm road for
them with hurdles. Once while grubbing a hedge
near the road he found five shillings' worth of pen-
nies — the great old ' coppers ' — doubtless hidden
by a thief. He could not buy so much with one of
the new sort of coppers : liked them as King George
made best.

An old lady of about seventy, living at the village
inn, a very brisk bod}', seemed quite unable to un-
derstand what was meant by history, but could tell
me a story if I liked. The story was a rambling
narrative of an amour in some foreign country.
The lady, to conceal a meeting with her paramour,
which took place in the presence of her son, who
was an imbecile (or, in her own words, had ' no
more sense than God gave him,' a common country
expression for a fool), went upstairs and rained
raisins on him from the window. The son told the
husband what had happened ; but, asked to specify
the time, could only fix it by, ' When it rained
raisins.' This was supposed to be merely a fresh
proof of his imbecility, and the lady escaped.

In this imperfect narrative is there not a distorted
version of a chapter in the ' Pentameron ' ? But how
did it get into the mind of an illiterate old woman in
an out-of-the-wa}^ village ? Nothing j^et of Waterloo,
Culloden, Sedgmoor, or the civil war ; but in the end
an old man declared that King Charles had once
slept in an old house just about to be pulled down.

76 An Ancient Garden.

But then ' King Charles ' slept, according to local
tradition, in most of the old houses in the country-.
However, I resolved to visit the place.

Tall yew hedges, reaching high overhead, thick
and impervious, such as could only be produced in
a hundred years of growth and countless clippings,
enclosing a green pleasaunce, the grass uncut for
many a year, weeds overrunning the smooth surface
on which the bowls once rolled true to their bias.
In the shelter of these hedges, upon the sunii}^ side,
you might walk in early spring when the east wind
is harshest, without a breath penetrating to chill the
blood, warm as within a cloak of sables, enjoying
that pecuhar genial feeling which is induced by sun-
shine at that period only, and which is somewhat
akin to the sense of convalescence after a weary
illness. Thus, sauntering to and fro, your footstep,
returning on itself, passed the thrush sitting on her
nest calm and confident.

No modern exotic evergreens ever attract our
English birds like the true old English trees and
shrubs. In the box and yew they love to build ;
spindly laurels and rhododendrons, with vacant
draughty spaces underneath, they detest, avoiding
them as much as possible. The common hawthorn
hedge round a countiy garden shall contain three
times as many nests, and be visited by five times as
man}' birds, as the foreign evergreens, so costly to
rear and so sure to be killed by the first old-fashioned
frost.

The thrushes are singularly fond of the yew berr}- ;
it is of a sticky substance, sweet and not unpleasant.
Holly berries, too, are eaten ; and holly hedges,

A Filbert Walk. 77

despite their prickl}- leaves, are favorites with gar-
den birds. It would be possible, I think, to so plan
out a garden as to attract almost every feathered
creature.

A fine old filbert walk extends far awa^^ towards
the orchard : the branches meet overhead. In
autumn the fruit hangs thick ; and what is more
exquisite, when gathered from the bough and eaten,
as all fruit should be, on the spot? I cannot under-
stand why filbert walks are not planted by our
modern capitahsts, who make nothing of spending
a thousand pounds in forcing-houses. I cannot help
thinking that true taste consists in the selection of
what is thoroughly characteristic of soil and climate.
Those magnificent j-ew hedges, the filbert walk — all
in fact are to be levelled " to make way for a garish
stucco-fronted hunting-box, with staring red stables
and every modern convenience. The sun-dial shaft
is already heaved up and broken.

The old mansion was used as a grammar school
for a great man}' j^ears, but has been deserted for
the last quarter of a century ; and melancholy indeed
are the silent hollow halls and dormitories. The
whitewashed walls are yellow and green from damp,
and covered in patches with saltpetre efflorescence ;
but they still bear the hasty inscriptions scrawled
on them hy boyish hands — some far back in the
eighteenth century. The history of this little king-
dom, with its dynasties of tutors and masters, its
succeeding generations of joyous youth, might be
gathered from these writings on the walls : sketches
in burned stick or charcoal of extinct monarchs of
the desk ; rude doggerel verses ; curious jingles of

78 Sivalloivs' Nests indoors.

Latin and English words of which every great school
has its specimens ; dates of daj' and month when
doubtless soine daring expedition was carried out ;
and here and there (originally hidden behind furni-
ture, we may suppose) bitter words of hatred against
the injustice of ruUng authorities — arbitrarj- ushers
and cruel masters.

The casements, broken and blown in, have per-
mitted all the winds of heaven to wreak their will ;
and the storms sweeping over from the adjacent
downs beat as they choose upon the floor. Within
an upper window — now obviously enough a wind-
door — two swallows' nests haA'e been built against
the wall close to the ceiling, and their pleasant twit-
ter greets you as you enter ; and so does the whist-
ling of the starlings on the roof. But without there,
below, the ring of the bricklayer's trowel as he chips
a brick has already given them notice to quit.

Cottages. 79

CHAPTER V.

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE THE COTTAGE PREACHER

COTTAGE SOCIETY THE SHEPHERD EVENTS OP

THE VILLAGE TEAR,

SoiiE few farmhouses, with cow-j^ards and rick-yards
attached, are planted in the midst of the village ; and
these have cottages occupied by the shepherds and
carters, or other laborers, who remain at work for
the same employer all the year. These cottages are
perhaps the best in the place, larger and more com-
modious, with plenty of space round them, and fair-
sized gardens close to the door. The system of hiring
for a twelvemonth has been bitterly attacked ; but as
a matter of fact there can be no doubt that a man
with a famil}^ is better off when settled in one spot
with constant emploj-ment, and any number of odd
jobs for his wife and children. The cottages not
attached to any particular farm — belonging to vari-
ous small owners — are generally much less conven-
ient ; they are huddled together, and the footpaths
and rights of way frequently cross, and so lead to
endless bickering.

Not the faintest trace of design can be found in
the ground-plan of the village. All the odd nooks
and corners seem to have been preferred for building
sites ; and even the steep side of the hill is dotted

80 Tlie Village 'Street:

with cottages, with, gardens at an angle of forty-five
degrees or more, and therefore difficult to work.
Here stands a group of elm trees ; there half-a-dozen
houses ; next a cornfield thrusting a long narrow
strip into the centre of the place ; more cottages built
with the back to the road, and the front door opening
just the other way ; a small meadow, a well, a deep
lane, with banks built up of loose stone to prevent
them slipping — only broad enough for one wagon
to pass at once — and with cottages high above
reached by steps ; an open space where three more
crooked lanes meet ; a turnpike gate, and, of course,
a beerhouse hard by it.

Each of these crooked lanes has its group of cot-
tages and its own particular name ; but all the lanes
and roads passing through the \dllage are known
colloquially as ' the street.' There is an individuality,
so to sa}-, in these by-ways, and in the regular archi-
tecture of the houses, which does not exist in the
straight rows, each cottage exactly alike, of the
modern blocks in the neighborhood of cities. And
the inhabitants correspond with their dwelling in this
respect — most of them, especially the elder folk,
being ' characters ' in their way.

Such old-fashioned cottages are practically built
around the chimney ; the chimney is the firm nucleus
of solid masonry or brickwork about which the low
walls of rubble are clustered. When such a cottage
is burned down the chimney is nearly alwaj's the only
thing that remains, and against the chimney it is
built up again. Next in importance is the roof,
which, rising from very low walls, really encloses half
of the inhabitable space.

Furniture of a Cottage. 81

The one great desire of the cottager's heart — after
his garden — is plent}' of sheds and outhouses in
which to store wood, vegetables, and kimber of all
kinds. This trait is quite forgotten as a rule b}-
those who design ' improved ' cottages for gentlemen
anxious to see the laborers on their estates well
lodged ; and consequentl}' the new buildings do not
give so much satisfaction as might be expected. It is
only natural that to a man whose possessions are lim-
ited, things like potatoes, logs of wood, chips, odds
and ends should assume a value bej^ond the apprecia-
tion of the well-to-do. The point should be borne in
mind by those who are endeavoring to give the
laboring class better accommodation.

A cottage attached to a farmstead, which has been
occupied b^' a stead}" man who has w^orked on the
tenancj^ for the best part of his life, and possibl}^ b}"-
his father before him, sometimes contains furniture
of a superior kind. This has been purchased piece
hy piece in the course of years, some representing
a little legacy — cottagers who have a trifle of prop-
erty are very proud of making wills — and some
perhaps the last remaining relics of former pros-
perit}'. It is not at all uncommon to find men like
this, whose forefathers no great while since held
fai-ms, and even owned them, but fell b}' degrees in
the social scale, till at last their grandchildren work
in the fields for wages. An old chair or cabinet
which once stood in the farmhouse generations ago
is still preserved.

Upon the shelf may be found a few books — a
Bible, of course ; hardly a cottager who can read is
without his Bible — and among the rest an ancient
6

82 A Modern ' L'onside.''

volume of polemical theology, bound in leather ; it
dates back to the da3-s of the fierce religious contro-
versies which raged in the period which produced
Cromwell. There is a rude engraving of the author
for frontispiece, title in red letter, a tedious preface,
and the text is plentifully bestrewn with Latin and
Greek quotations. These add greatl}" to its value in
the cottager's eyes, for he still looks upon a knowl-
edge of Latin as the essential of a ' scholard.' This
book has evidently been handed down for many gen-
erations as a kind of heirloom, for on the blank leaves
may be seen the names of the owners with the inevi-
table addition of ' his ' or ' her book.' It is remark-
able that literature of this sort should survive so
long.

Even yet not a little of that spirit which led to the
formation of so many contending sects in the seven-
teenth centur}' lingers in the cottage. I have known
men who seemed to reproduce in themselves the
character of the close-cropped soldiers who prayed
and fought by turns with such energy. They, still
read the Bible in its most literal sense, taking every
woi'd as addressed to them individually, and seri-
ously trying to shape their lives in accordance with
their convictions.

Such a man, who has been laboring in the hay-
field all day, in the evening may be found exhorting
a small but attentive congregation ki a cottage hard
by. Though he can but slowly wade thi'ough the
book, letter by letter, word by word, he has caught
the manner of the ancient writer, and expresses him-
self in an archaic style not without its effect. Narrow
as the view must be which is unassisted hy education

The Martyr at the Stiles. 83

and its broad sjnnpathies, there is no mistaking the
thorough earnestness of the cottage preacher. He
believes what he says, and no persuasion, rhetoric,
or force could move him one jot. His congregation
approve his discourse with groans and various ejacu-
lations. Men of this kind won Cromwell's victories ;
but ,to-day they are mainly conspicuous for upright
steadiness and irreproachable moral character, min-
gled with some surly independence. They are not
' agitators ' in the current sense of the term ; the
local agents of labor associations seem chosen from
quite a different class.

Pausing once to listen to such a man, who was
preaching in a roadside cottage in a loud and excited
manner, I found he was describing, in graphic if
rude language, the procession of a martyr of the
Inquisition to the stake. His imagination naturally
led him to picture the circumstances as correspond-
ing to the landscape of fields with which he had been
from youth familiar. The executioners were drag-
ging the victim bound along a footpath across the
meadows to the pile which had been prepared for
burning him. When they arrived at the first stile
they halted, and held an argument with the prisoner,
promising him his life and safety- if he would recant,
but he held to the faith.

Then they set out again, beating and torturing the
sufferer along the path, the crowd hissing and revil-
ing. At the next stile a similar scene took place —
promise of pardon, and scornful refusal to recant,
followed by more torture. Again, at the third and
last stile, the victim was finally interrogated, and,
still firmly clinging to his belief, was committed to the

84 Customs of Cottagers.

flames in the centre of the field. Doubtless there was
some historic basis for the stor}' ; but the preacher
made it quite his own b}' the vigor and life of the
local coloring in which he clothed it, speaking of
the gi-een grass, the flowers, the innocent sheep,
the fagots, and so on, bringing it home to the minds
of his audience to whom fagots and grass and sheep
were so well known. They worked themselves into
a state of intense excitement as the narrative ap-
proached its climax, till a continuous moaning formed
a deep undertone to the speaker's voice. vSuch men
are not paid, trained, or organized ; thej^ labor from
goodwill in the cause.

Now and then a wTjman, too, may be found who
lectures in the little cottage room where ten or fifteen,
perhaps twenty, are packed almost to suffocation ; or
she praj's aloud and the rest respond. Sometimes,
no doubt, persons of little sincerity practise these
things from pure vanitj' and the ambition of preach-
ing— for there is ambition in cottage life as else-
where; but the men and women I speak of are
thoroughh' in earnest.

Cottagers have their own social creed and customs.
In their intercourse, one point which seems to be in-
sisted upon particularly is a previous knowledge or
acquaintance. The ver}- people whose morals are
known to be none of the strictest — and cottage
morality is sometimes ver}' far from severe — will
refuse, and especially the women, to admit a strange
girl, for instance, to sleep in their house for ample
remuneration, even when introduced bj^ really respect-
able persons. Servant-girls in the country where
railways even now are few and far between often

Shepherds. 85

walk long distances to see mistresses in want of as-
sistance, by appointment. They get tired ; perhaps
night approaches and then comes the diftlculty, of
lodging them if the house happens to be fall. Cot-
tagers make the greatest ditlicultj, unless by some
chance it should be discovered that they met the
girl's uncle or cousin 3'ears ago.

To their friends and neighbors, on the contrarj^,
they are often very kind, and ready to lend a helping
hand. If they seldom sit down to a social gathering
among themselves, it is because they see each other
so constantly during the da}', working in the same
fields, and perhaps eating their luncheon a dozen to-
gether in the same outhouse. A visitor whom they
know from the next village is ever welcome to what
fare there is. On Sundays the younger men often
set out to call on friends at a distance of several
miles, remaining with them all day ; they carry with
them a few lettuces, or apples from the tree in the
garden (according to the season), wrapped up in a
colored handkerchief, as a present.

Some of the older shepherds still wear the ancient
blue smoekfrock, crossed with white ' facings ' like
coarse lace ; but the rising generation use the great-
coat of modern make, at which their forefathers would
have laughed as utterly useless in the rain-storms that
blow across the open hills. Among the elder men,
too, may be found a few of the huge umbrellas of a
former age, which when spread give as much shelter
as a small tent. It is curious that they rarely use
an umbrella in the field, even when simply standing
about ; but if the}' go a short journey along the high-
way, then they take it with them. The aged men

86 Individuality of the Shepherd.

sling these great umbrellas over the shoulder with a
piece of tar cord, just as a soldier slings his musket,
and so have both hands free — one to stump along
with a stout stick and the other to carr}' a flag basket.
The stick is alwa3's too length}' to walk with as men
use it in cities, carrying it by the knob or handle ; it
is a staff rather than a stick, the upper end project-
ing six or eight inches above the hand.

If any laborers deserve to be paid well, it is the
shepherds : upon their knowledge and fidelity the
principal profit of a whole season depends on so many
farms. On the bleak hills in lambing time the great-
est care is necessary ; and the fold, situated in a
hollow if possible, with the down rising on the east
or north, is built as it were of straw walls, thick and
warm, which the sheep soon make hollow inside, and
thus have a cave in which to nestle.

The shepherd has a distinct individualit}^, and is
generall}' a much more observant man in his own
sphere than the ordinary laborer. He knows every
single field in the whole parish, what kind of weather
best suits its soil, and can tell 3'ou without going
within sight of a given farm pretty much what con-
dition it will be found in. Knowledge of this char-
acter ma}' seem trivial to those whose daj's are passed
indoors ; 3'et it is something to recollect all the end-
less fields in several square miles of country. As a
student remembers for years the type and paper, the
breadth of the margin — can see, as it were, before
his eyes the bevel of the binding and hear again the
rustle of the stift' leaves of some tall volume which he
found in a forgotten corner of a library, and bent
over with such delight, heedless of dust and ' silver-

The ShephertVs Memory. 87

fish ' and the gathered odor of }- ears — so the shepherd
recalls his books, the fields ; for he, in the natnre of
things, has to linger over them and study every letter :
sheep are slow.

When the hedges are grubbed and the gi-ass grows
where the hawthorn flowered, still the shepherd can
point out to you where the trees stood — here an oak
and here an ash. On the hills he has often little to
do but ponder deeply, sitting on the turf of the slope,
while the sheep graze in the hollow, waiting for hours
as the}' eat their way. Therefore by degrees a habit
of observation grows upon him — always in reference
to his charge ; and if he walks across the parish off
duty he still cannot choose but notice how the crops
are coming on, and where there is most 'keep.' The
shepherd has been the last of all to abandon the old
custom of long service. While the laborers are rest-
less, there ma}- still be found not a few instances of
shepherds whose whole lives have been spent upon
one farm. Thus, from the habit of observation and
the lapse of years, they often become local authori-
ties ; and when a dispute of boundaries or water rights
or right of way arises, the question is frequently
finally decided by the evidence of such a man.

Ever}' now and then a difficulty happens in refer-
ence to the old green lanes and bridle-tracks which
once crossed the country- in ever}' direction, but get
fewer in number year by year. Sometimes it is de-
sired to enclose a section of such a track to round off
an estate : sometimes a path has grown into a valu-
able thoroughfare through increase of population ;
and then the question comes, Who is to repair it?
There is little or no documentary evidence to be found

88 Snow.

— nothing can be traced except through the memo-
ries of men ; and so they come to the old shepherd,
who has been stationary all his life, and remembers
the condition of the lane fifty 3'ears since. He alwa^-s
liked to drive his sheep along it — first, because it
saved the turnpike tolls ; secondly, because they could
graze on the short herbage and rest under the shade
of the thick bushes. Even in the helplessness of his
old age he is not without his use at the very last, and
his word settles the matter.

In the winter twilight, after a fall of snow, it is
diflScult to find one's way across the ploughed fields
of the open plain, for it melts on the south of every
furrow, leaving a white line where it has ledged on
the northern side, till the furrows resemble an end-
less succession of waves of earth tipped with foam-
flecks of snow. These are dazzling to the eyes, and
there are few hedges or trees visible for guidance.
Snow lingers sometimes for weeks on the northern
slopes of the downs — where shallow dry dykes, used
as land-marks, are filled with it : the dark mass of
the hill is streaked like the black hull of a ship with
its line of white paint. Field work during what the
men call ' the dark days afore Christmas ' *is neces-
sarily much restricted and they are driven to find
some amusement for the long evenings — such as
blowing out candles at the ale-house with muzzle-
loader guns for wagers of liquor, the wind of the cap
alone being suflUcient for the purpose at a short dis-
tance.

The children never forget St. Thomas's Day-, which
ancient custom has consecrated to alms, and they
wend their way from farmhouse to farmhouse through-

Christmas Customs. 89

out the parish ; .it is usual to keep to the parisli, for
some of the old local feeling still remains even in
these cosmopolitan times. At Christmas sometimes
the children sing carols, not with much success so far
as melody goes, but otherwise successfully enough ;
for recollections of the past soften the hearts of the
crustiest.

The young men for weeks previously have been
practising for the mumming — a kind of rude drama
requiring, it would seem, as much rehearsal before-
hand as the pla3's at famous theatres. They dress in
a fantastic manner, with masks and colored ribbons ;
any thing grotesque answers, for there is little attempt
at dressing in character. The}^ stroll round to each
farmhouse in the parish and enact the play in the
kitchen or brewhouse ; after which the whole com-
pany are refreshed with ale, and, receiving a few
coins, go on to the next homestead. Mumming, how-
ever, has much deteriorated, even in the last fifteen
or twenty years. On nights when the pla^-ers were
known to be coming, in addition to the farmer's
household and visitors at that season, the cottagers
residing near used to assemble, so that there was
quite an audience. Now it is a chance whether they
come round or not.

A more popular pastime with the young men, and
perhaps more profitable, is the formation of a brass
band. They practise vigorously before Christmas,
and sometimes attain considerable proficiency. At
the proper season they visit the farms in the evening,
and as the houses are far apart, so that only a few
can be called at in the hours available after work, it
takes them some time to perambulate the parish. So

90 The Carter.

that for two or three weeks about the end of the old
and the beginning of the new 3^ear, if one chances to
be out at night, every now and then comes the un-
wonted note of a distant trumpet sounding over the
fields. The custom has grown frequent of recent
years, and these bands collect a good deal of money.

The ringers from the church come too with their
hand-bells and ring pleasant tunes — which, however,
on bells are always plaintive — standing on the crisp
frozen gi-ass of the green before the window. They
are well rewarded, for bells are great favorites with
all country people.

What is more pleasant than the jinghng of the tiny
bells on the harness of the cart-horses? You may
hear the team coming with a load of straw on the
wagon three furlongs distant ; then step out to the
road, and watch the massive yet shapely creatures
pull the heavy weight up the hill, their glossy quarters
scarcel}' straining, but heads held high showing the
noble neck, the hoofs planted with sturdy pride of
strength, the polished brass of the harness glittering,
and the bells merril}' jingling ! The carter, the thong
of his whip nodding over his shoulder, walks by the
shaft, his boy ahead by the leader, as proud of his
team as the sailor of his craft : even the whip is not
to be lightl}' come by, but is chosen carefully, bound
about with rows of brazen rings ; neither could you
or I knot the whipcord on to his satisfaction.

For there is a certain art even in so small a thing,
not to be learned without time and practice ; and his
pride in whip, harness, and team is surely preferable
to the indifference of a stranger, caring for nothing
but his rnoney at the end of the week. The modern

Rural Holidays. 91

system — men coming one day and gone the next —
leaves no room for the growth of such feelings, and
the art and mystery of the craft loses its charm.
The harness bells, too, are disappearing ; hardly one
team in twenty carries them now.

Those who labor in the fields seem to have far
fewer hohdays than the workers in towns. The lat-
ter issue from factory and warehouse at Easter, and
rush gladly into the country : at Whitsuntide, too,
they enjoy another recess. But the farmer and the
laborer work on much the same, the closing of banks
and factories in no wa^' interfering with the tilling
of the earth or the tending of cattle. In May the
ploughboys still remember King Charles, and on what
the}' call ' shik-shack day ' search for oak-apples and
the young leaves of the oak to place with a spray of
ash in their hats or button-holes : the ash spray must
have even leaves ; an odd number is not correct. To
wear these green emblems was thought imperative
even within the last twenty years, and scarcely a
laborer could be seen without them. The elder men
would tell you — as if it had been a grave calamity —
that they could recollect a year when the spring was
so backward that not an oak-leaf or oak-apple could
be found b}- the most careful search for the purpose.
The custom has fallen much into disuse lately : the
carters, however, still attach the ash and oak leaves
to the heads of their horses on this particular day.

Many village clubs or friendly societies meet in
the spring, others in autumn. The day is sometimes
fixed by the date of the ancient feast. The club and
fete threaten, indeed, to supplant the feast altogether ;
the friendly society having been taken under the

92 The Calendar of Nature.

patronage of the higher ranks of residents. Here and
there the feast-day, however (the da}' on which the
church was dedicated), is still remembered, as in this
village, where the elder farmers invite their friends
and provide liberall}' for the occasion. Some of the
gipsies still come with their stalls, and a little crowd
assembles in the evening ; but the glory of the true
feast has departed.

The elder men, nevertheless, j'et reckon bj^ the
feast day ; it is a fixed point in their calendar, which
they construct every year, of local events. Such
and such a fair is calculated to fall so many days
after the first full moon in a particular month ; and
another fair falls so long after that. An old man will
thus tell 3'ou the dates of every fair and feast in
all the villages and little towns ten or fifteen miles
round about. He quite ignores the modern system
of reckoning time, going by the ancient ecclesiastical
calendar and the moon. How deepl}^ the ancient
method must have impressed itself into the life of
these people to still remain a kind of instinct at this
late day !

The feasts are in some cases identified with certain
well-recognized events in the calendar of Nature ;
such as the ripening of cherries. It may be noticed
that these, chancing thus to correspond prett}' accu-
rately on the average with the state of fruit, are kept
up more vigorously than those which have no such aid
to the memory. The Lady Day fair and Michaelmas
fair at the adjacent market town are the two best
recognized holidays of the year. The fair is some-
times called ' the mop,' and stalwart girls will walk
eight or nine miles rather than miss it. Maid-ser-

The ' 3Iop: 93

vants in farmhouses always bargain for a holiday on
fair day. These two main fairs are the Bank Holi-
days of rural life. It is curious to observe that the
developments of the age, railroads and manufacto-
ries, have not touched the traditional prestige of
these gatherings.

For instance, 3'ou may find a town which, b}' the
incidence of the railroad and the springing-up of
great industries, has shot far ahead of the other
sleepy little places ; its population may treble itself,
its trade be ten times as large, its attractions one
would imagine incalculably greater. Nothing of the
kind : its annual fair is not nearly so important an
event to the village mind as that of an old-world
slumberous place removed from the current of civili-
zation. This place, which is perhaps eight or nine
miles by road, with no facilities of communication,
has from time immemorial had a reputation for its
fair. There, accordingl}^, the scattered rural popu-
lation wends, making no account of distance and
A^ery little of weather : it is a country maxim that it
alwa^'s rains on fair da}', and mostly thunders. There
they assemble and enjoy themselves in the old-fash-
ioned way, which consists in standing in the streets,
buying 'fairings' for the girls, shooting for nuts,
visiting all the shows, and so on.

To push one's way through such a crowd is no
simple matter ; the countryman does not mean to
be rude, but he has not the faintest conception that
politeness demands a little yielding. He has to be
shoved, and makes no objection. A cit}' crowd is
to a certain extent mobile — each recognizes that ho
must give way. A country crowd stand stock still.

94 Reaping and Gleaning.

The thumping of drums, the blaring of trumpets,
the tootUng of pan-pipes in front of the shows, fill
the air with a din which may be heard miles awaj',
and seem to give the crowd intense pleasure — far
more than the crack band of the Coldstream Guards
could impart. Nor are they ever weary of gazing at
the ' pelican of the wilderness ' as the showman de-
scribes it — a mournful bird with draggled feathers
standing by the entrance, a traditional part of his
stock-in-trade. One attraction — perhaps the strong-
est— may be found in the fact that all the country-
side is sure to be there. Each laborer or laboring
woman will meet acquaintances from distant villages
they have not seen or heard of for months. The
rural gossip of half a county will be exchanged.

In the autumn after the harvest the gleaning is still
an important time to the cottager, though nothing
like it used to be. Reaping by machinery has made
rapid inroads, and there is not nearly so much left
behind as in former days. Yet half the women and
children of the place go out and glean, but ver}' few
now bake at home ; the}' have their bread from the
baker, who comes round in the smallest hamlets.
Possibly they had a more wholesome article in the
olden time, when the wheat from their gleanings was
ground at the village mill, and the flour made into
bread at home. But the cunning of the mechanician
has invaded the ancient customs ; the very sheaves
are now to be bound with wire by the same machine
that reaps the corn. The next generation of country
folk will hardly be able to understand the story of
Ruth.

A Flood. 95

CHAPTER VI.

HAMLET COTTAGE ASTROLOGY GHOST LORE

HERBS THE WAGON AND ITS CREW STILES

THE TRYSTING-PLACE THE THATCHER SMUG-
GLERS AGUE.

In most large rural parishes there is at least one
small hamlet a mile or two distant from the main
village. A few houses and cottages stand loosely
scattered about the fields, no two of them together ;
so separated, indeed, by hedges, meadows, and
copses, as hardly to be called even a hamlet. The
communication with the village is maintained by a
long, winding narrow lane ; but foot-passengers fol-
low a shorter path across the fields, which in winter
is sure to be ankle deep in mud, by the gateways
and stiles. The lane, at the same time, is crossed
by a torrent, which may spread out to thirty yards
wide in the hollow, shallow at the edges, but swift
and deep in the middle.

If 3'ou wait a couple of hours it will subside, as
the farmers lower down the brook pull up the hatches
to let the flood pass. If you are in a huriy, you
must cUmb up into the double-mound beside the lane,
and force your w^ay along it between thorns and
stoles, till you reach the channel through which the
current is rushino-. Across that an old tree trunk

96 Astrology.

will probabl}' lie, and by grasping a bough as a hand-
rail it is possible to get over. But either way, by
lane or footpath, you are sure to get what the coun-
try- folk call ' watchet, ' i.e. wet. So that in winter the
hamlet is practicaUy isolated ; for even in moder-
ately good weather the lane is an inch or two deep
in finely puddled adhesive mud. It is so shaded b.y
elms and thick hedges that the dirt requires a
length of time to dry, while the passage of hundreds
of sheep tread and puddle it as onl}' sheep can.

In summer the place is lovel}' ; but then the inhabi-
tants are one and all busy in the fields, and have
httle time for social intercourse or for travel into the
next parish. It is ten to one if you knock at a cot-
tage door 3'ou will find it locked, if indeed j^ou get
so far as that, a padlock being often on the garden
gate. Being so isolated and apart from the current
of modern life and manners, the hamlet folk retain
something of the old-fashioned wa}' of thinking.
They do not believe their own superstitions with the
imphcit credence of yore, but they have not 3^et
forgotten them. I have known women, for instance,
who seriously asserted that such-and-such an aged
person possessed a magic book which contained
spells, and enabled her to foresee some kinds of
coming events. The influence of the moon, so firm
an article of faith among their forefathers, is not
altogether overlooked ; and the}' watch for the new
moon carefully. If the crescent slopes, it will be wet
weather. But if the horns of the crescent touch, or
nearly, a vertical hue, if it stands upright, then it
will be fine. Something, too, must be allowed for
the degree of sharpness of definition of the crescent,

Ghost-lore. 97

which reveals the state of the atmosphere. And the
cottage astrologer has a whole table of the quarters'
aspects, and so on, and laj's much stress upon the
day and hour of the change : indeed, it is a very-
complicated business to understand the moon.

The belief in the power of certain persons to ' rule
the planets ' is profound ; so profound that neither
ridicule, argument, nor authority will shake it in the
minds of the hamlet girls, and it abides with them
even when they are placed amidst the disenchanting
realities of town life. When 'in service,' the}' buy
dream-books, and consult fortune-tellers. The gip-
sies, in passing through the countr^^ choose the by-
ways and lanes ; they thus avoid the tolls, have a
chance of poaching, and find waste places to camp
in, though possibly something of the true nomadic
instinct may urge them to leave the beaten tracks
and wander over lonely regions. They camp near
the hamlet as they travel to and from the great sheep-
fairs which are held upon the hills, and perhaps stay
a few days ; and by them, to some extent, the belief
in astrology and palmistry is strengthened.

The carters, who have to spend some considerable
time" every day with their hoi'ses in the stable, still
retain a large repertory of legendary ghost-lore.
They know the exact spot in the lane where, at a
certain hour of the night, the white spectre of a
headless horse, rushing past with incredible swift-
ness and without the sound of a hoof, brushes the
very coat of the traveller, and immediately disappears
in the darkness. Another lane is haunted by a white
woman, whose spectre crosses it in front of the spec-
tator and then appears behind him. If he turns his
7

98 Second-siglit of Horses.

head or looks on one side in order to escape the sight
of the apparition, it instantly crosses to that side.
Indeed, no matter in which direction he glances,
the flickering figure floats before him, till, making a
run for it, he passes beyond the limits of the haunted
ground.

Near by the hollow, where the stream crosses the
lane, is another spirit, but of an indefinite kind, that
does not seem to take shape, but causes those who
go past at the time when it has power to feel a mor-
tal horror. A black dog may be seen in at least two
diflferent places : the wayfarer is suddenly surprised
to find a gigantic animal of the deepest jet trotting
by his side, or he sees a dark shadow detach itself
from the bushes and take the form of a dog. The
black dog has perhaps more vitality, and survives in
more localities, than all the apparitions that in the
olden times were sworn to by persons of the highest
veracit^^ They may still be heard of in many a
nook and corner. I have known people of the
present daj^ who were positive that there really was
' something ' weird in the places where the dog was
said to appear.

It is supposed that horses are peculiarly liable to
take fright and run away, to sh}^, or stumble, and
break their knees, at a certain spot in the road.
They go very well till just on passing the fatal spot
a sudden fear seizes them as if the}' could see some-
thing invisible to men ; sometimes they bolt head-
long, sometimes stand stock-still and shiver ; or
throw the rider by a rapid side movement. In the
daytime — for this supernatural effect is felt in broad
day as well as at night — the horse more frequently

Belief in the Swpernatural. 99

falls or stumbles, as if checked by an invisible force
in the midst of his career. This, too, is a living
superstition, and some persons will recount a whole
string of accidents that have happened within a few
yards ; till at last, such is the force of iteration, the
most incredulous admit it to be a series of remarkable
coincidences. These last two, the black dog and the
dangerous place in the road, are believed in by people
of a much higher grade than carters. Altogether,
the vitality of superstition in the country is ver}^ much
greater tlian is commonly suspected. It is now con-
fined, as it were, to the inner life of the people : no
one talks of such things openly, but only to their
friends, and thus a stranger might remark on the
total extinction of the belief in the supernatural. But
much really remains.

The carters have a storj^ about horses which had
spent the night in a meadow being found the next
morning in a state of exhaustion, as if they had been
ridden furiously during the hours of darkness. They
were totally unfit for work next day. Instances are
even given where men have hidden in a tree with a
gun, and when the horses began to gallop fired at
something indistinct sitting on their haunches, which
something at once disappeared, and the excitement
ceased. But these things are said to have happened
a long time ago.

So, also, there is a memory of a man digging stone
ill a quarry and distinctly hearing the strokes of a
pick beneath him. When he wheeled his barrow the
subterranean quarryman wheeled his, and shortly after
he had shot the stones out there came a rumbling
from below as if the other barrow had been emptied.

100 Belief in Ilerhs.

The very quariy is pointed out where this extraordi-
nary phenomenon took place. It is curious how a
stor}^ of this kind, something hke wliich is, I think,
told of the Hartz Mountains, should have got local-
ized in a limestone quarry so far apart in distance
and character. Plow well I remember the ancient
laborer who told me this legend as a bo}" ! It is easy
to philosophize on it now, and speculate upon the
genesis of the tale, which may have originated in a
cavernous hollow resounding to the tools ; but then
it was a realit}', and I recollect always giving a wide
berth to that quarry at night. As the old man told
it, it was indeed hardly a legend ; for he could dis-
close every detail, and what has here occupied a few
sentences took him the best part of an hour to relate.

Now and then the western clouds after the sunset
assume a shape resembhng that of a vast extended
wing, as of a gigantic bird in full flight — the extreme
tip nearl}' reaching the zenith, the body of the bird
just below the horizon. The resemblance is some-
times so perfect that the layers of feathers are trace-
able by an imaginative eye. This, the old folk sa}^,
is the wing of the Archangel Michael, and it bodes
no good to the evil ones among the nations, for he is
on his way to execute a dread command.

Herbs are still believed in implicitly b}^ some.
Not long since I met a laborer, one of the better
class too, whom I had known previously, and now
found deeply depressed because of the death of a son.
The poor fellow had had every attention ; the clergy-
man had exerted himself, and wine and nourishing
luxuries had not been spared, nor the best of medical
advice. That he admitted, but still regretted one

The Rickmaker. 101

thing. There was a herb, which grew beside rivers,
and was known to bnt a few, that was a certain cure for
the kind of wasting disease which had battled educated
skill. There was an old man living somewhere by a
river fifty miles away, who possessed the secret of
this herb, and by it had accomplished marvellous
cures. He had heard of him, but could not by any
inquiry ascertain his exact whereabouts ; and so his
child died. Ever}^ thing possible had been done,
but still he regretted that this herb had not been ap-
plied.

Nothing is done right now, according to the old
men of the hamlet ; even the hayricks are built badly
and •• scamped.' The *■ rickmaker' used to be an im-
portant person, generally a veteran, who had to 1)6
conciliated with an extra drop of good liquor before
he could be got to set to work in earnest. Then he
spread tlie hay here, and worked it in there, and
had it trodden down at the edge, and then in the
middle, and, like the centurion, sent men hither and
thither. His rick, when complete, did not rise per-
pendicularly, but each face or square side sloped a
little outwards — including the ends — a method that
certainl}' does give the rick a very shapely look.

But now the new-fangled ' elevator ' carries up the
hay by machinery from the wagon to the top, and
two ricks are run up while the^' would formerly have
just been carefully laying the foundation for one of
fagots to keep off the damp. The poles put up to
support the rick-cloth interfere with the mathemati-
cally correct outward slope at tlie ends, upon which
the old fellow prided himself ; so they are carried up
straight like the end wall of a cottage, and are a

102 Building the Wagon.

constant source of contempt to the ancient invalid.
However, he consoles himself with the reflection that
most of the men emploj'ed with the ' elevator ' will
ultimatel}' go to a very unpleasant place, since they
are continuously swearing at the horse that works it,
to make him go round the faster.

After an old cart or wagon has done its work
and is broken up, the wooden axletree, which is very
solid, is frequently used for the top bar of a stile.
It answers very well, and, being of seasoned wood
that has received a good many coats of red paint,
will last a long time. The Ufe of a wagon is not
unlike that of a ship. On the cradle it is the pride
of the craftsman who builds it, and who is careful
to reproduce the exact ' lines ' which he learned from
his master as an apprentice, and which have been
handed down these hundred 3'ears and more. The
builders of the Chinese junks are said never to saw
a piece of timber into the shape required, nor to
bend it by softening the fibres by hot steam, but
alwaj's use a beam that has grown crooked naturally.
This plan gives great strength, but it must take
years to accumulate the necessary curved trees.
The wagon-builder, in like manner, has a whole
yardful of timber selected for much the same reason
— because it naturally curves in the way he desires,
or is specially fitted for his purpose.

For, like a ship, the true old-fashioned wagon is
full of curves, and there is scarcely a straight piece
of wood about it. Nothing is angular or square ;
and each piece of timber, too, is carved in some
degree, bevelled at the edges, the sharp outline re-
lieved in one way or another, and the whole structure

Voyages of the Wagon. 103

like a ship, seeming buoyant, and floating as it were
easil_y on the wheels. Then the painting takes sev-
eral weeks, and after that the lettering of the name ;
and when at last completed it is placed outside by
the road, that every farmer and laborer who goes
by ma}' pause and admire. In about twelve months,
if the builder be expeditious (for him), the new
vessel may reach her port under the open shed at
the farm, and then her life of vo^^ages begins.

Her cargoes are hay and wheat and huge moun-
tainous loads of straw, and occasionally hurdles for
the shepherd. Nor are her voyages confined to the
narrow seas of the field adjoining home ; now and
then she goes on adventurous expeditions to distant
marlvct towns, carrying ma^'hap a cargo of oak-
bark, stripped from fallen trees, to the tan-yard.
Then she is well victualled for the voyage, and her
course mapped out on the chart in order to avoid
the Scylla of steep hills and stony ways and the
Charybdis of tollgates, besides being duly cautioned
against the sirens that chant so sweeth' from the
taps of the roadside inns. Or she sails down to the
far-away railwa}' station after coal — possiblj' two
or more vessels in the same convoy — if the steam
plough be at work and requires the constant services
of these tenders.

She has her own special crew — her captain the
carter — and for forecastle men a lad or two, and
often a couple of able-bodied seamen in the shape
of laborers, to help to load up. When on the more
distant voyages to unknown shores, she takes a
supercargo — the farmer's son —to check the bills
of lading ; for on those strange coasts who knows

104 Her Captain the Carter.

what treachery there may be brewing? There are
arms aboard, in the form of forks or prongs ; and
commonly one or more passengers go out in her —
women with vast bundles and children — not to
mention the merchandise of sugars and of teas
from Cathay, which are shipped for delivery at half
the cottages and farmsteads en route homewards.
Wherefore, you see, the captain had needs be a
sober and godly man, having all these and manifold
other responsibilities upon his mind.

Besides which he has to make a report upon the
state of the crops on every farm he passes, and what
everybody is doing, and if they have begun reaping ;
also to hail every vessel he passes outward or home-
ward bound, and enter her answers in his log, and
to keep his weather-eye open and a sharp watch to
windward, lest storms should arise and awake the
deep, and if the gale increases to batten down his
hatches and make all snug with the tarpaulin. He
must bear in mind the longitude of those ports where
there are docks, lest his team should cast a shoe or
any of the running rigging want splicing, or the hull
spring a leak — for the blacksmith's forges are often
leagues apart, and he may lose his certificate if he
strands his ship or founders on the open ocean of the
downs. Sometimes, if the currents run unexpectedly
strong, and he is deeply laden, he has to borrow or
hire a tug from the nearest farm, getting an extra
horse to pull up the hill.

When he reaches harbor, and has leave ashore,
a jollier seaman never cracked a whip. Perhaps the
happiest time with the ploughboys is when they are
out with the wagon, having a little change, no harder

Loading the Wagon. 105

work than walliiug, sips at the ' pots ' handed to the
captain by his mates, and nothing to think about.
Nor was there ever a more popular song in the
country than —

We '11 jump into the wagon,

And we Ml all take a ride !

Though in winter, when the horses' shoes have to
be roughed for the frost, or, worse, when the wheels
sink deep into the spongy turf, and rain and sleet
and snow make the decks slipper}^, it is not quite so
joll3\ Yet even then, so strong is the love of mo-
tion, a run with the wagon is preferred to stationary
work.

The captain, when bound on a voyage, generally
slips his cable or weighs anchor with the rising sun.
His crew are first-rate helmsmen ; and to see them
sweep into the rickyard through the narrow gateway,
with a heavy deck cargo piled to the skies, all sail
set, a stiff breeze, and the timbers creaking, is a
glorious sight ! Not a scrape against the jetty,
though ' touch and go ' is the sign of a good pilot.
His greatest trouble is when his cargo shifts out of
sight of land : sometimes the vessel turns on her
beam-ends with a too ponderous and ill-built load
of straw, and then the wreck lies' right in the fairway
of all the ships coming up the channel. To load a
wagon successfully is indeed a work of art : on the
hills where the wagons have to run ' sidelong ' to
pick up the crops, one side higher than the other,
no one but an experienced hand can make the stuff
stay on. Then there is often a tremendous bumping
and scraping of the keel on the rocks of the newly-
mended roads, and the nasty chopping seas of the

106 The Last Moorings.

deep ruts, besides the long regular Atlantic sweUs
of the furrows and ' lands.' So that the cargo had
need to be firml}- placed in the hold.

Every now and then she goes into dock and gets
a new streak of paint and a thorough overhauling.
The running rigging of the harness has to be polished
and kept in good condition, and the crew are rarel}'
idle if the captain knows his business. You should
never let your ' fo'castle ' hands loll about ; the

proverb about the and the idle hands is notori-

oush^ true aboard ship, and in the stables.

How many a man's life has centred about the
wagon ! As a child he rides in it as a treat to the
hay-field with his father ; as a lad he walks beside
the leader, and gets his first ideas of the great world
when they visit the market town. As a man he
takes command and pilots the ship for many a long,
long year. When he marries, the wagon, lent for
his own use, brings home his furniture. After a while
his own children go for a ride in it, and play in it
when stationary in the shed. In the painful ending
the wagon carries the weak-kneed old man in pit}'
to and from the old town for his weekly store of
goods, or ma3'hap for his weekl}' dole of that staft" of
life his aged teeth can hardly grind. And many a
plain coffin has the old wagon carried to the distant
churchyard on the side of the hill. It is a cold spot
— ^as life, too, was cold and hard ; yet in the spring
the daisies will come, and the thrushes will sing on
the bough.

Built at first of seasoned wood, kept out of the
weather under cover, repainted, and taken care of,
the wagon lasts a lifetime. Many times repau'ed, the

Atokward Stiles. 107

old ship outlasts its owner — his name on it is painted
out. But that step is not taken for yeai's : there
seems to be a superstitious dislike to obliterating the
old name, as if tlie dead would resent it, and there it
often remains till it becomes illegible. Sometimes the
second owner, too, goes, and the name fresh painted
is that of the third. When at last it becomes too
shaky for farm use, it is perhaps bought by some
poor working haulier, who has a hole cut in the
bottom with movable cover, and uses it to bring
down flints from the hills to mend the roads. But if
any of the old folk live, they will not sell the ancient
vessel : it stands behind the rickyard under the
elms till the rain rots the upper work, and it is then
broken up, and the axletree becomes the top bar of a
stile.

Each field has its characteristic stile — or rather
two, one each side (at the entrance and exit of the
footpath) , and these are never alike. Walking across
the fields for a couple of miles or more, of all the
stiles that must of necessity be surmounted no two
are similar. Here is one well put together — not too
high, the rail not too large, and apparently an ideal
piece of workmanship ; but on approaching, the
ground on the opposite side drops suddenly three or
four feet — at the bottom is a marshy spot crossed by
a narrow bridge of a single stone, on which you have
to be careful to alight, or else plunge ankle-deep in
water. If clever enough to drop on the stone, it
immediately tilts up shghtl}^, for, like the rocking-
stones of Wales, it is balanced somewhere, and has
a see-saw motion well calculated to land the timid in
the ditch.

108 The Trysting-place.

The next is approached by a line of stepping-
stones — to avoid the mnd and water — whose sur-
faces are so irregular as barely to afford a footing.
The stile itself is nothing — very low and easy to
pass ; but just bej^ond it a stiff, stout pole has been
placed across to prevent horses straying, and below
that a couple of hurdles are pitched to confine the
sheep. This is almost too much ; however, by pa-
tience and exertion, it is managed.

Then comes a double mound with two stiles — one
for each ditch — made very high and intended for
steps ; but the steps are worn away, and it is some-
thing like climbing a perpendicular ladder. Another
has a top rail of a whole tree, so broad and thick no
one can possibly straddle it, so some friend of hu-
manity has broken the second rail, and you creep
under. Finally comes a steep bank, six or seven feet
high, with rude steps formed of the roots of trees
worn bare by iron- tipped boots, and of mere holes in
which to put the toe. At the top the stile leans for-
ward over the precipice, so that yon have to suspend
yourself in mid-air. Fortunately, almost every other
one has a gap worn at the side just large enough to
squeeze through after coaxing the briars to 3'ield a
trifle. For it is intensely characteristic of human
nature to make gaps and short cuts.

All the lads of the hamlet have a trysting-place
at the cross-roads, or rather cross-lanes, where there
is often an open waste space and a small clump of
trees. If there is an}- mischief in the wind, there the
council of war is sure to be held. There is a great
rickyard not far distant, where in one of the open
sheds is the thatcher's workshop.

The Thatcher. 109

He is a very pronounced character in his way,
with his leathern pads for the knees that he may be
able to bear lengthened contact against the wooden
rungs of the ladder, his little club to drive in the
stakes, his shears to snip off the edges of the straw
round the eaves, his iron needle of gigantic size with
which to pass the tar cord through when thatching a
shed, and his small sharp billhook to split out his
thatching stakes. These are of willow, cut from the
pollard trees b}' the brook, and he sits on a stool in
the shed and splits them into three or four with the
greatest dexterity, giving his billhook a twist this
way and then that, and so guiding the split in the
direction required. Then holding it across his knee,
he cuts the point with a couple of blows and casts the
finished stake aside upon the heap.

A man of no little consequence is the thatcher, the
most important perhaps of the hamlet craftsmen.
He ornaments the wheat ricks with curious twisted
tufts of straw, standing up not unlike the fantastic
ways in which savages are represented doing their
hair. But he does not put the thatch on the wheat
half so substantialh' as formerly because now only a
few remain the winter — the thatch is often hardly on
before it is off' again for the threshing machine — for
the ' sheening,' as they call it. On the hayricks,
which stand longer, he puts better work, especially
on the south and western sides or angles, binding it
down with a crosswork of bonds to prevent the gales
which blow from those quarters unroofing the rick.

It is said to be an ill wind that blows nobody any
good : now the wind never blew that was strong
enough to please the thatcher. If the hurricane

110 Smuggling.

roughs up the straw on all the ricks in the parish,
unroofs half-a-dozen sheds, and does not spare the
gables of the dwelling-houses, why he has work for
the next two months. He is attended by a man to
carry up the ' yelms,' and two or three women are
busy ' yelming ' — i.e., separating the straw, selecting
the longest and la_)ing it level and mrallel, damping
it with water, and preparing it for the yokes. These
yokes must be cut from boughs that have grown
naturally in the shape wanted, else they are not tough
enough. A tough old chap, too, is the thatcher, a
man of infinite gossip, well acquainted with the gen-
ealogy of every farmer, and, indeed, of everybody
from Dan to Beersheba, of the parish.

The memory of the smugglers is not yei quite ex-
tinct. The old men will point out the route they
used to follow, and some of the places where they are
said to have stored their contraband goods. Smug-
gUng suggests the sea, but the goods landed on the
beach had afterwards to be conveyed inland for sale,
so that the hamlet, though far distant from the shore,
has its traditions of illicit trade. The route followed
was a wild and unfrequented one, and the smugglers
appear to have kept to the downs as much as possi-
ble. More than one famil}" — well-to-do for the
hamlet or village where a small capital goes a long
way — are said to have originally derived their pros-
perity from assisting the storage or disposal of smug-
gled goods ; and the sympathies of the hamlet would
be with the smugglers still.

The old folk, too, talk of having the ague, and say
that it was quite common in their early days ; but it
is rare to hear of a case now. Possibly the better

Jgue. Ill

drainage of the fields and the better food and lodging
enjoyed by the laborers have something to do with
this. There are, of course, no scientific or precise
data for exact comparison, but, judging from the
traditions transmitted down, the hamlet is much
more healthy at the present day than it was in the
olden times.

112 The ' Wiek.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FARMHOUSE TRADITIONS HUNTING PICTURES — ■

THE farmer's year SPORT THE AUCTION FES-
TIVAL A summer's day BEAUTY OF WHEAT.

The stream, after leaving the village and the wash-*^
pool, rushes swiftly down the descending slope, and
then entering the meadows, quickly loses its original
impetuous character. Not much more than a mile
from the village it flows placidl}' through meads and
pastures, a broad, deep brook, thickly fringed with
green flags bearing here and there large yellow
flowers. By some old thatched cattle-sheds and
rick-yards, overshadowed with elm trees, a strong
bay or dam crosses it, forcing the water into a pond
for the cattle, and answering the occasional purpose
of a ford ; for the laborers in their heavy boots walk
over the baj^ though the current rises to the instep.
They call these sheds, some few hundred yards from
the farmhouse, the 'Lower Pen.' Wick Farm — al-
most every village has its outl^'ing ' wick ' — stands
alone in the fields. It is an ancient, rambhng build-
ing, the present form of which is the result of suc-
cessive additions at difterent dates, and in various
styles.

When a homestead, like this, has been owned and
occupied by the same family for six or seven genera-

Old Furniture. 113

tions, it seems to possess a distinct personality of its
own. A liistoiy grows up round about it ; memories
of the past accumulate, and are handed down fresh
and green, linking to-da}' and seventy years ago as
if hardly any lapse of time had intervened. The in-
mates talk familiarl}' of the ' comet 3'ear,' as if it was
but just over ; of the days when a load of wheat was
worth a little fortnne ; of the great snows and floods
of the previous century. They date events from the
year when the Foremeads were purchased and added
to the patrimony, as if that transaction, which took
place ninety years before, was of such importance
that it must necessarily be still known to all the
world.

The house has somehow shaped and fitted itself to
the character of the dwellers within it : hidden and
retired among trees, fresh and green with cherry and
pear against the wall, j'et the brown thatch and the
old bricks subdued in tone by the weather. This
individuality extends to the furniture ; it is a little
stiff and angular, but solid, and there are nooks and
corners — as the window-seat — suggestive of placid
I'epose : a strange opposite mixture throughout of
flowery peace and silence, with an almost total lack
of modern conveniences and appliances of comfort —
as though the sinewy vigor of the residents disdained
artificial ease.

In the oaken cupboards — not black, but a deep
tawn}' color with age and frequent polishing — may
be found a few pieces of old china, and on the table
at tea-tinie, perhaps, other pieces, which a connois-
seur would tremble to see in use, lest a clumsy arm
should shatter their fragile antiquity. Though ap-

114 Old Weapons.

parently so little valued, you shall not be able to buy
these things for mone}' — not so much because their
artistic beauty is appreciated, but because of the in-
stinctive clinging to every thing old, characteristic of
the place and people. These have been there of old
time : they shall remain still. Somewhere in the
cupboards, too, is a curiously carved piece of iron,
to fit into the hand, with a front of steel before the
fingers, like a skeleton rapier guard ; it is the ancient
steel with which, and a flint, the tinder and the sul-
phur match were ignited.

Up in the lumber-'room are carved oaken bed-
steads of unknown age ; linen-presses of black oak
with carved panels, and a drawer at the side for the
lavender-bags ; a rust}' rapier, the point broken off ;
a flintlock pistol, the barrel of portentous length, and
the butt weighted with a mace-like knob of metal,
wherewith to knock the enemy on the head. An old
yeomanry sabre lies about somewhere, which the
good man of the time wore when he rode in the troop
against the rioters in the days of machine-burning —
which was like a civil war in the countrj^, and is 3'et
recollected and talked of. The present farmer, who
is getting just a trifle heavy in the saddle himself, can
tell 3'ou the names of laborers living in the village
whose forefathers rose in that insurrection. It is a
memory of the house, how one of the family paid
40/. for a substitute to serve in the wars against the
French.

The mistress of the household still bakes a batch
of bread at home in the oven once now and then,
priding herself that it is never ' duneh,' or heavy.
She makes all kinds of preserves, and wines too —

Old 3Iemories. 115

cowslip, elderberry, ginger — and used to prepare a
specially delicate biscuit, the paste being dropped ou
paper and baked b}- exposure to the sun's ra^ys only.
She has a bitter memory of some money having been
lost to the family sixty years ago through roguer}^,
harping upon it as a most direful misfortune : the old
folk, even those having a stocking or a teapot well
filled with guineas, thought a great deal of small
sums. After listening to a tirade of this kind, in the
belief that the family were at least half-ruined, it
turns out to be all about 100^. Her grandmother
after marriage travelled home on horseback behind
her husband ; there had been a sudden flood, and the
newly-married couple had to wait for several hours
till the waters went down before they could pass.
Times are altered now.

Since this family dwelt here, and well within what
may be called the household memory, the A^ery races
of animals have changed or been supplanted. The
cows in the field used to be longhorns, much more
hard}^, and remaining in the meadows all the winter,
with no better shelter than the hedges and bushes
afforded. Now the shorthorns have come, and the
cattle are housed carefully. The sheep were horned
— up in the lumber-room two or three horns are still
to be fouud. The pigs were of a difljerent kind, and
the dogs and poultry. If the race of men have not
changed they have altered their costume ; the smock-
frock lingered longest, but even that is going.

Some of the old superstitions hung on till quite
recently. The value of horses made the arrival of
foals an important occasion, and then it was the
custom to call in the assistance of an aged man of

116 Parlor Ornaments.

wisdom — not exactly a wizard, but something ap-
proacliing it nearl}' in reputation. Even within the
last fifteen years the aid of an ancient like this used
to be regularly invoked in this neighborhood ; in
some mysterious way his simple presence and good-
will— gained by plentiful liquor — was supposed to
be efficacious against accident and loss. The strange-
ness of the business was in the fact that his patrons
were not altogether ignorant or even uneducated —
they merely carried on tlie old custom, not from faith
in it, but just because it was the custom. When the
wizard at last died nothing more was thought about
it. Another ancient used to come round once or
twice in the 3'ear, with a couple of long ashen staves,
and the ceremony performed by him consisted in
dancing these two sticks together in a fantastic
manner to some old rh3'me or story.

The parlor is always full of flowers — the mantel-
piece and grate in spring quite hidden by fresh green
boughs of horse-chestnut in bloom, or with hlac, blue
bells, or wild hyacinths ; in summer nodding grasses
from the meadows, roses, sweet-brier ; in the autumn
two or three great apples, the finest of the j^ear, put
as ornaments among the china, and the corners of
the looking-glass decorated with bunches of ripe
wheat. A badger's skin lies across the back of the
armchair ; a fox's head, the sharp white tusks show-
ing, snarls over the doorway ; and in glass cases are
a couple of stutfed kingfishers, a polecat, a white
blackbird, and a diver — rare here — shot in the mere
hard by.

On the walls are a couple of old hunting pictures,
dusky with age, but the crudity of the colors by no

Faulty Ilutiting Scenes. 117

means toned down or their rude contrast moderated :
bright scarlet coats, bright white horses, harsh green
grass, prim dogs, stiff trees, human figures immov-
able in tight buckskins ; running water hard as glass,
the sky fixed, the ground all too small for the group-
ing, perspective painfully emphasized, so as to be
itself made visible ; the surface everywhere ' painty '
— in brief, most of the possible faults compressed
together, and proudly fathered b}- the artist's name
in" full.

One representing a meet, and the other full cry,
the pack crossing a small river ; the meet still and
rigid, ever}' horseman in his place — not a bit jing-
ling, or a hoof pawing, or any thing in motion. Now
the beauty of the meet, as distinct from a drilled cav-
alry troop, is its animation : horses and riders moving
here and there, gathering together and spreading out
again, new-comers riding smartly up, in continuous
freshness of grouping, and constant relief to the eye.
The other — in full cry — all polished and smooth and
varnished as when they left the stable ; horses with
gloss}' coats, riders upright and fatigueless, dogs
clean, and not a sign of poaching on the turf. The
dogs arc coming out of the water with their tails up
and straight — dogs as they trail their flanks out of
a brook alwa3's, in fact, droop their tails, while their
bodies look smaller and the curves project, because
the water lays the hair flat to the bod}' till several
shakes send it out again. Not a speck on a top-
boot, not a coat torn by a thorn, and the horses as
plump as if fresh from their mangers, instead of hav-
ing worked it down. Not a fleck of foam ; the sun,
too, shining, and yet no shadow — all glaring. And,

118 A Real Finish.

despite of all, deeph' interesting to those who know
the countiy-side and have a feeling knowledge of its
hunting history.

For the horses are from life, and the men portraits ;
the very hedges and brooks faithful — in ground-plan,
at least. The costume is true to a thread, and all the
names of the riders and some of the hounds are written
underneath. So that a hunter sees not the crude
color or faulty drawing, but what it is intended to
represent. Under its harshness there is the poetrj^
of life. But looking at these pictures the reflection
will still arise how few realty truthful hunting scenes
we have on canvas in this the country of hunting.
The best are so conventional, and have too much
color. All nature in the season is toned down and
subdued — the gleaming red and bright yellows of
the early autumn leaves soaked and soddened to a
dull brown ; the sky dark and lowering — if it is bright
there is frost ; the glossy coat of the horses, and the
scarlet, or what colored cloth it may be, of the riders
deadened by rain and the dewdrops shaken from the
bushes. Think for a moment of a finish as it is
in reality, and not in these gaudy, brilliant color-
studies.

A thick mist clings in the hollow there by the
osier-bed where the pack have overtaken the fox, so
that 3'on cannot see the dogs. Beyond, the contour
of the hill is lost in the cloud traihug over it ; the fore-
ground towards us shows a sloping ploughed field, a
damp brown, with a thin mist creeping along the
cold furrows. Yonder, three vague and shadowy
figures are pushing laboriously forward beside the
leafless hedge ; while the dirt-spattered bays hardly

Season for Picnics. 119

show against its blaclv background and through the
mist. Some wa}' beliind, a weaiy gra}' — the only
spot of color, and that dimmed — is gamely struggling
— it is not leaping — through a gap beside a gaunt
oak tree, whose dark bufT leaves yet linger. But out
of these surely an artist who dared to face Nature as
she is might work a picture.

The year really commences at Wick farmhouse
immediately before the autumn nominally begins —
nominally, because there is generally a sense of
autumn in the atmosphere before the end of Septem-
ber. Just about that time there comes a slackening
of the work requiring earnest personal supervision.
When the yellow corn has been cut and carted, and
the threshing machine has prepared a sample for the
markets — when the ricks are thatched, and the steam
plough is tearing up the stubble — then the farmer
can spare a day or so free from the anxieties of har-
vest. There is plenty of work to be done ; in fact,
the 3'early rotation of labor may be said to begin in
the autumn too, but it does not demand such hourly
attention. It is the season for picnics — while the
sun is 3'et warm and the sward dry — on the downs
among the great hazel copses, or the old intrench-
ment, with its view over a vast landscape, dimmed,
though, by yellow haze, or by the shallow lake in the
vale.

With the exception of knocking over a young
rabbit now and then for household use, the farmer,
even if he is independent of a landlord, as in this case,
does not shoot till late in the year. Old-fashioned
folk, though not in the least constrained to do so, still
leave the first pick of the shooting to some neigh-

120 The Farmer loves a Grun.

boring land-owner between whose family and their
own friendly relations have existed for generations.
It is true that the practice becomes rarer yearl}^ as
the old st3'le of men die out and the spirit of com-
merce is imported into rural life ; the rising race pre-
ferring to make money of their shooting, by letting
it, instead of cultivating social ties.

At Wick, however, they keep up the ancient
custom, and the neighboring squire takes the pick
of the wing-game. They lose nothing for their
larder through this arrangement — receiving presents
of partridges and pheasants far exceeding in number
what could possibly be killed upon the farm itself;
while later in the 3'ear the boundaries are relaxed on
the other side, and the farmer kills his rabbit pretty
much where he likes, in moderation.

He is seldom seen without a gun on his shoulder
from November till towards the end of January.
No matter whether he strolls to the arable field, or
down the meadows, or across the footpath to a
neighbor's house, the inevitable double-barrel ac-
companies him. To those who live much out of
doors a gun is a natural and almost a necessary
companion, whether there be much or little to shoot ;
and in this desultory way, without much method or
set sport, he and his friends, often meeting and
joining forces, find sufficient ground game and wild
fowl to give them plenty of amusement. When the
hedges are bare of leaves the rabbit-burrows are
ferreted : the holes can be more conveniently ap-
proache'd then, and the frost is supposed to give the
rabbit a better flavor.

About Christmas-time, half in joke and half in

Hunting. 121

earnest, a small party often agree to shoot as many
blackbirds as they can, if possible to make up the
traditional twenty-four for a pie. The blackbird pie
is, of course, really an occasion for a social gather-
ing, at which cards and music are forthcoming.-
Though blackbirds abound in every hedge, it is by
no means an easy task to get the required number
just when wanted. After January the guns are laitl
aside, though some ferreting is still going on.

The better class of farmers keep hunters, and ride
constantly to the hounds ; so do some of the lesser
men who ' make ' hunters, and ride not only for
pleasure but possible profit from the sale. Hunting
is, to a considerable extent, a matter of locality. In
some districts it is the one great winter amusement,
and almost ever}' farmer who has got a horse rides
more or less. In others which are not near the
centres of hunting, it is rather an exception for the
farmers to go out. On and near the Downs coursing
hares is much followed. Then towards the spring,
before the grass begins to grow long, comes the
local steeplechase — perhaps the most popular gath-
ering of the year. It is held near some small town,
often rather a large village than a town, where it
would seem impossible to get a hundred people to-
gether. But it happens to be one of the fixed points,
so to say, in a wide hunting district, and is well
known to every man who rides a horse within twenty
miles.

Numerous parties come to the race-ground from
the great houses of the neighborhood. The labor-
ing people flock there en masse ; some farmers lend
wagons and teams to the laborers that they may

122 The Neiv Festivals.

go. All additional — a personal — interest attaches
to many of the races because the horses are local
horses, and the riders known to the spectators.
Some of these meetings are movable ; the^' are held
near one town one year and another the next, so as
to travel round the whole hunting district : return-
ing, sa}', the fourth 3'ear to the first place. Most
of the market towns of any importance have their
annual agricultural show now, which is well at-
tended.

In the spring comes the rook-shooting ; the date
varies a week oj so according to the season, whether
it has been mild and favorable or hard and late.
This still remains a favorite occasion for a party.
Sheep-shearing in sheep districts, as the Downs, is
also remembered ; some of the old folk make much
of it ; but as a general rule this ancient festival has
fallen a good deal into disuse. It is not made the
grand feast it once was for master and man alike —
at least, not in these parts. With the change that
has come across agriculture at large a variation has
taken place in the life of the people. New festivals,
and of a different character, have sprung up.

The most important of these is the annual auction
on the farm : the system of selling by auction which
has become so widely diffused has, indeed, quite revo-
lutionized agriculture in many ways. Where the
farm is celebrated for a special breed of sheep, the
great event of the 3'ear is the annual auction at home
of ram lambs. Where the farm is famous for cattle,
the chief occasion is the yearlj^ sale of 3'oung short-
horns. And recently, since steam plough and arti-
ficial manure and general high pressure have been

Tlte Annual Auction. 123

introduced, man}' large arable farmers sell their corn
crops standing. The purchaser pa^'s a certain price
for the wheat as it grows, reaps it when ripe, and
makes what profit he can.

In either case the auctioneer is called in, a dinner
is prepared, and everybody who likes to come is
welcome. If there happens to be a great barn near
the homestead it is usually used for the dinner.
The marquee has yet to be invented which will keep
out a thunderstorm — that common interruption of
country- meetings — like an old barn. But barns are
not always available, and a tent is then essential.
Though the spot may be lonely and several miles
from a town or station, a large number of persons
are sure to be there ; and if it is an auction of sheep
or cattle with a pedigree, manj' of them will be found
to have come from the other end of the kingdom,
and sometimes agents are present from America or
the colonies. Much time is consumed in an exami-
nation of the stock, and then the dinner begins — at
least two hours later than was announced. But this
little jaeculiarity is so well understood by all interested
as to cause no inconvenience.

Scarcely- any ale is to be seen : it is there if asked
for ; but the great majority now drink sherry. The
way in which this wine has supplanted the old-fash-
ioned October ale is remarkable, and a noticeable
sign of the times. At home the farmer may still
have his foaming jug, but whenever farmers congre-
gate together on occasions like this sherry is the
favorite. When calling at the inns in the towns
on market days — much business is transacted at the
inns — spirits are usually taken, so that ale is no

124 The Fishing-rod not a Favorite.

longer the characteristic country liquor. With the
sherry cigars are handed round — another change.
It is true the elderly men stick to their long clay
pipes, and it is observable that some of the younger
after a while go back to the yard of clay ; but on the
whole the cigar is now the proper thing.

Then follow a couple of toasts, the stock-owner's
and auctioneer's— usually short — and an adjourn-
ment takes place — if it be stock, to the }■ ards ; if
corn, the cloth is cleared of all but the wine, and the
sale proceeds there and then. In either case the
shei'ry and the cigars go round — persons being em-
ployed to press them freely upon all ; and altogether
a very jovial afternoon is spent. Some of the com-
pany do not separate till long after the conclusion of
the sale : the American or colonial agent perhaps
stays a night at the farmstead. In the house itself
there is all this time jei more liberal hospitality
proffered : it is quite open-house hospitality, master
and mistress vjdng in their efforts to make every one
feel at home. These gatherings do much to promote
a friendly spirit in the neighborhood.

In the summer the farmer is too much occupied to
think of amusement. It is a curious fact that very
few really downright country people care for fishing ;
a gun and a horse are as necessary as air and light,
but the rod is not a favorite. There seems to be
greater enthusiasm than ever about horses ; whether
people bet or not, the^^ talk and think and read more
of horses than they ever did before.

In this locahty Clerk's Ale, which used to be
rather an event, is quite extinct. The Court Leet
is still held, but partakes slightlj' of the nature of a

Early Morning. 125

harmless farce. The lord of the manor's court is no
terror now. A number of gentlemen, more for the
custom's sake than any thing, sit in solemn conclave
to decide whether or no an old pollard tree may be
cut down, how much an old woman shall pay in quit-
rent for her hovel, or whether there was or was not a
gateway in a certain hedge seventy years ago. How-
ever, it brings neighbors together, and causes the
inevitable sheny to circulate briskly.

The long summer days begin very early at Wick.
About half-past two of a morning in June a faint
twittering under the eaves announces that the swal-
lows are awaking, although they will not commence
their flight for a while yet. At three o'clock the
cuckoo's call comes up from the distant meadows,
together with the sound of the mower sharpening his
scythe, for he likes to work while the dew is heavy
on the grass, both for coolness and because it cuts
better. He gets half a clay's work done before the
sun grows hot, and about eight or nine o'clock lies
down mider the hedge for a refreshing nap. Between
three and four the thrushes open song in the copse at
the corner of the Home-field, and soon a loud chorus
takes up their ditty as one after the other joins in.

Then the nailed shoes of the milkers clatter on the
pitching of the courtyard as they come for their buck-
ets ; and immediatel}' afterwards stentorian voices
may be heard in the fields bellowing, ' Coom up !
ya-hoop ! ' to which the cows, recognizing the well-
known call, respond very much in the same tones.
Slowly they obey and gather togetlier under the
elms in the corner of the meadow, which in summer
is used as the milking-place. About five or half-

126 Luncheon and Dinner.

past another clattering tells of the milkers' return ;
and then the dairy is in full operation. The house-
hold breakfasts at half-past six or thereabouts, and
while breakfast is going on the heavy tramp of feet
ma}^ be heard passing along the roadway through the
rick-yard — the haymakers marching to the fields.
For the next two hours or so the sounds from the
dairy are the only interruption of the silence : then
come the first wagons loaded with hay, jolting and
creaking, the carter's lads shouting, ' Woaght ! ' to
the horses as thej^ steer through the gateway and
sweep round, drawing up under the rick.

Between eleven and twelve the wagons cease to
arrive — it is luncheon time : the exact time for
luncheon varies a quarter of an hour or twenty
minutes, or more, according to the state of the work.
Messengers come home for cans of beer, and carry
out also to the field wooden ' bottles ' — small barrels
holding a gallon or two. After a short interval work
goes on again till nearl}'^ four o'clock, when it is
dinner-time. A laborer or two, deputed by the rest
and having leave and Hcense so to do, enters the
farmhouse garden and pulls up bundles of onions,
lettuces, or radishes — sown over wide areas on
purpose — and carries them out to the cart-houses,
or wherever the men may be. If far from home, the
women often boil a kettle for tea under the hedge,
collecting dead sticks fallen from the trees. At six
o'clock work is over : the women are allowed to leave
half an hour or so previously, that they may prepare
their husbands' suppers.

As the sunset approaches the long broad dusty
road loses its white glare, and j^onder by the hamlet

Honey. V2.1

a bright glistening banner reflects the level r.ays of
the snn with dazzling sheen ; it is the gilding on tlie
swinging wayside sign transformed for the moment
from a wooden board rudelj' ornamented with a gilt
snn, all rays and rotund cheeks, into a veritable
oriflamme.

There the men will assemble by-and-by, on the
forms about the trestle table, and share each other's
quarts in the fellowship of labor. Or perhaps the
work may be pressing, and .the wagons are loaded
till the white owl noiselessly flits along the hedgerow,
and the round moon rises over the hills. Then those
who have stayed to assist find their supper waiting
for them in the brewhouse, and do it ample justice.

Once during the morning, while busy in the hay-
field, not so much with his hands as his eyes, watch-
ing that the ' wallows ' may be turned over properly,
and the ' wakes ' made at a just distance from each
other, that the wagon may pass easily between, the
farmer is sure to be summoned home with the news
of a swarm of bees. If the work be pressing, they
must be attended to by deput}^ ; if not, he hurries
home himself; for although in these days bee-keep-
ing is no longer what it used to be, yet the old-fash-
ioned folk take a deep interest in the bees still. They
tell you that ' a swarm in May is worth a load of \ia.y ;
a swarm in June is worth a silver spoon ; but a swarm
in July is not worth a fly ' — for it is then too late for
the young colony to store up a treasure of golden
honey before the flowers begin to fade at the approach
of autumn.

It is noticeable that those who labor on their own
laud (as at Wick) keep up the ancient customs much

128 Ripe Grass.

more vigorously than the tenant who knows that he
is hable to receive a notice to quit. And farms, for
one reason or another, change tenants much more
frequentl}' now than they used to do. Here at Wick
the owner feels that every apple tree he grafts, ever}'
flower he plants, returns not onl^' a mone}' value,
but a joy not to be measured by money. So the bees
are carefully watched and tended, as the blue tom-
tits find to their cost if they become too venture-
some.

These bold little bandits will sometimes make a
dash for the hive, alighting on the miniature platform
before the entrance, and playing havoc with the
busy inmates. If alarmed they take refuge in the
apple trees, as if conscious that the owner will not
shoot them there, since every pellet may destroy
potential fruit b}' cutting and breaking those tender
twigs on which it would present!}' grow. It is a
pleasant sight in autumn to see the room devoted to
the hone}' — great broad milk-tins full to the brim of
the translucent liquid, distilhng slowly from pure
white comb, from the top of whose cells the waxen
covering has been removed.

All the summer through fresh beauties, indeed,
wait upon the owner's footsteps. In the spring the
mowing-grass rises thick, strong, and richly green,
or hidden by the cloth-of-gold thrown over it by the
buttercups. He knows when it is ready for the
scythe without reference to the almanac, because of
the brown tint which spreads over it from the ripen-
ing seeds, sometimes tinged with a dull red, when
the stems of the sorrel are plentiful. At first the
aftermath has a trace of yellow, as if it were fading ;

Colors of Wheat. 129

but a shower falls, and fresh green blades shoot np.
Or, passing from the hollow meads up on the rising
slopes where the plough rules the earth, what so
beautiful to watch as the wheat through its vai'ioiis
l)liases of color?

First green and succulent ; then, presently', see a
modest ear comes forth with promise of the future.
B^'-and-by, when every stalk is tipped like a sceptre,
the lower stalk leaves are still green, but the stems
have a faint bluish tinge, and the ears are paling into
yellow. Next the white pollen — the bloom — shows
under the warm sunshine, and then the birds begin to
grow busy among it. They perch on the stalk itself
— it is at that time strong and stiff enough to uphold
their weight, one on a stem — but not now for mis-
chief. You may see the sparrow carry away with
him caterpillars for his 3'oung upon the housetop hard
by ; later on, it is true, he will revel on the ripe
grains.

Yesterday you came to the wheat, and found it
pale like this (it seems but twenty-four hours ago —
it is really only a little longer) ; to-da}', when you
look again, lo ! there is a fleeting ^^ellow already on
the ears. Thej' have so quickly caught the hue of
the bright sunshine pouring on them. Yet another
day or two, and the faint fleeting yellow has become
fixed and certain, as the colors are deepened by the
great artist. Onl}' when the wind blows and the ears
bend in those places where the breeze takes most, it
looks paler because the under part of the ear is shown
and part of the stalk. Finally comes that rich hue
for which no exact similitude exists.

In it there is somewhat of the red of the orange,

130 Grumhli.

somewhat of the tint of bronze, and somewhat
of the hue of maize ; but these are poor words
wherewith to render fixed a color that plays over the
surface of this 3'ellow sea, for if you take one, two,
or a dozen ears \o\\ shall not find it, but must look
abroad, and let your gaze travel to and fro. Nor
is every field ahke ; here are acres and acres more
yellow, 3'onder a space whiter, beyond that a slope
richly ruddy, according to the kind of seed that was
sown. Out of the depths of what to it must seem
an impenetrable jungle, from visiting a flower hidden
below, a humble-bee climbs rapidly up a stalk a yard
or two away while you look, and mounting to the top
of the ear, as a post of vantage clear of obstructions,
sails away upon the wind.

' We be all jolly vellers what vollers th' plough ! '

— but not to listen to, and take literally according to
the letter of the discourse. It runs something like
this the seasons through as the weather changes :
' Terrible dry weather this here to be sure ; we got so
much work to do uz can't get drough it. The fl}^ be
swarming in the turmots — the smut be on the wheat

— the wuts be amazing weak in the straw. Got a
fine crop of wheat this 3"ear, and prices be low, so uz
had better drow it to th' pigs. Last year uz had no
wheat fit to speak on, and prices was high. Drot
this here wet weather ! the osses be all in the stable
eating their heads off", and the chaps be all idling
about and can't do no work : a pretty penny for
wages and not a job done. Them summer ricks be
all rotten at bottom. The ploughing-engine be stuck
fast up to the axle, the land be so soft and squishey.
Us never gets no good old frosts now, like tliey used

Tlie Farmer a True Autochthon. 131

to have. Drot these here frosty mornings ! a-cutting
up every thhig. There '11 be another rate out soon,
a' reckon. Us had better give up this here trade,
neighbor ! '

And so on for a thousand and one grumbles, fitting
into every possible condition of things, which must
not, however, be taken too seriously ; for of all other
men the farmer is the most deeply attached to the
labor by which he lives, and loves the earth on which
he walks hke a true autochthon. He will not leave
it unless he is suffering severely.

132 Bi7'ds of the Farmhouse.

CHAPTER VIII.

BIRDS OF THE FARMHOUSE SPEECH OF A STARLING

POPULATION OF A GABLE THE KING OF THE HEDGE

THE thrushes' ANVIL.

Wick farmhonse^is thatched, and has many gables
hidden with ivy. In these broad expanses of thatch,
on the great ' chimney-tuns ' as countr}^ folk call
them, and in the ivy, tribes of birds have taken up
their residence. The thatch has grown so thick in
the course of years b}' the addition of fresh coats
that it projects far from the walls and forms wide,
far-reaching eaves. Over the cellar the roof de-
scends within three or four feet of the ground, the
wall being low, and the eaves here cast a shadow
with the sun nearly at the zenith.

On the higher parts of the roof, especially" round
the chimne3's, the starlings have made their holes,
and in the earl}^ summer are continuously flying to
and fro their 3'^oung, who never cease crying for food
the whole day through. A tall ash tree stands in the
hedgerow, about fifty yards from the house. On
this tree, which is detached, so that they can see
all round, the starhngs perch before they come to
the roof, as if to reconnoitre and to exchange pour-
parlers with their friends already on the roof ; for if
ever birds talk together starlings do. Many birds

A Flood of Eloquence.. 133

utter the same notes over and over again ; others sit
on a branch and sing the same song, as the thrash ;
but the starling has a whole syllabary of his own,
every note of which evidently' has its meaning, and
can be varied and accented at pleasure.

His whistle ranges from a shrill, piercing treble
to a low, hollow bass ; he runs a complete gamut,
Avith ' shakes,' trills, tremulous vibrations, every pos-
sible variation. He intersperses a peculiar clucking
sound, Avhich seems to come from the depths of his
breast, fluttering his wings all the while against his
sides as he stands bolt upright on the edge of the
chimney. Other birds seem to sing for the pure
pleasure of singing, shedding their notes broadcast,
or at most they are meant for a mate hidden in the
bush. The starling addresses himself direct to his
fellows : I think I ma}- say he never sings when
alone, without a companion in sight. He literally
speaks to his fellows. I am persuaded you may
almost follow the dialogue and guess the tenor of
the discourse.

A starling is on the chimne^'-top ; yonder on the
ash tree are four or five of his acquaintance. Sud-
denly he begins to pour forth a flood of eloquence —
facing them as he speaks : Will they come with him
down to the field where the cows are grazing ? There
will be sure to be plenty of insects settling on the
grass round the cow^s, and every now and then they
tear up the herbage by the roots and expose creeping
things. ' Come,' you ma}' hear him say, modulating
his tones to persuasion, ' come quickly ; you see it is
a fresh piece of grass into which the cows have been
turned only a few hours since ; it was too long for us

134 Starlings.

before, but where they have eaten we can get at
the ground comfortably. The water- wagtail is there
alread}^ ; he alwa^-s accompanies the herd, and will
have the pick and choice of every thing. Or what
do you say to the meadow by the brook? The
mowers have begun, and the swathe has fallen be-
fore their scythes ; there are acres of ground there
which we could not touch for weeks ; now it is open,
and the place is teeming with good food. The
finches are there as busy as may be between the
swathes — chaffinch and greenfinch, hedge-sparrow,
thrushes, and blackbirds too. Are 3'ou afraid?
Why, no one shoots in the middle of a summer's
day. Still irresolute? (with an angry shrillness).
Will ,you or will you not ? (a sharp short whistle of
interrogation) . You are simply idiots (finishing with
a scream of abuse) . I 'm off ! '

Seeing him start, the rest follow at once, jealous
lest he should enjoy these pleasures alone. As he
flies every few minutes he closes his wings, so that
for half a dozen yards he shoots like an arrow
through the air ; then rapidly uses them, and again
closes and shoots forward, all the time keeping a
level straight course, going direct to his object.

The starlings that breed in the roof, though they
leave the place later on and congregate in flocks
roosting in trees, still come back now and then to
revisit their homes, especially as the new 3'ear opens,
when they alight on the house frequently and consult
on the approaching important period of nesting. If
you should be sitting near a window close under the
roof where they are busy, reading a book, with the
summer sunshine streamino- in, now and then a flash

Superstitions about Biy-ds. 135

like lightning will pass across the page. It is a star-
ling rapidly vibrating his wings before he perches on
the thatch ; tlie swift succession of light and shadow
as the wings intercept the ra^-s of the sun causes an
impression on the e3'e like that left b^^ a flash of
lightning. They are beautiful birds : on their plu-
mage, when seen quite close, the light pla3-s in
iridescent gleams.

Upon the roof of the old farmstead, too, the chirp
of the sparrow never ceases the livelong day. It is
amusing to see these birds in the nesting season
carrying up long straws — towing their burden
through the air with evident labor — or feathers.
These they sometimes drop just as the}- arrive at
their destination. Eager to utter a chirp to their
mates, the}' open their beaks, and away floats the
feather, but the}' catch it again before it reaches
the ground. Flutfy feathers are great favorites.
The fowls, as they fly up to roost on the beams in
the sheds, beat out feathers from their clumsy wings ;
these lie scattered on the ground, marking the spot.
These roosting-places are magazines from which the
small birds draw their suppUes for domestic pur-
poses. The sparrows have their nests in lesser
holes in the thatch : sometimes they use a swallow's
nest built of mortar under the eaves, to which the
owners have not returned.

The older folk still retain some faint superstitions
about swallows, looking upon them as semi-conse-
crated and not to be killed or interfered with. They
will not have their nests knocked down. If they do
not return to the eaves but desert their nests it is a
sign of misfortune impending over the household.

136 Swallows.

So, too, if the rooks quit the rookery or the colonies
of bees in the hives on the sunn}- side of tlie orcliard
decay and do not swarm, but seem to die off, it is an
evil omen. If at night a bird flutters against the
window-pane in the darkness — as they will some-
times in a great storm of wind, driven, perhaps,
from their roosting-places by the breaking of the
boughs, and attracted by a light within — the knock-
ing of their wings betokens that something sad is
about to happen. If an invalid asks for a pigeon —
taking a fancy to a dish of pigeons to eat — it is
a sign either of coming dissolution or of extreme
illness.

But the swallows rarely fail to come in the spring,
and soon begin to repair their nests or build new
ones with mortar from the roads ; a rainy day is
very useful to them, and they alight at the edge of
the puddles, finding the mud already mixed and
tempered for them there. In such weather they will
fly backwards and forwards by the side of a hedge
for a length of time, skimming just above the grass,
when, looking down on them instead of up at them,
the white bar across the lower part of the body just
before the tail forks is very noticeable. The darker
feathers have a glossy bluish tinge on the black.
They seem fond of flying round and near horses and
cattle, as if insects were more numerous near animals.
While driving on a sultr}- da}' I have watched a swal-
low follow the horse for a mile or more.

It is a pleasant sight to watch them gliding just
above the surface of smooth water, dipping every
now and then. Once, while observing some swal-
lows flying over a lake, on a windy day, when there

Swallows do perch. 137

were waves of some size, I saw a swallow struck by
the crest of a wave and overwhelmed. It was about
twenty yards from a lee shore, and the bird floated
on the water, rising and sinking with the waves till
the}' threw it on the bank. It was much exhausted,
but when placed on a stone in the warm sunshine
soon recovered and flew off".

As another proof that, quick as they are on the
wing, they do not always judge their position or
course precisely, I know a case where a swallow, in
less than ten 3'ards after leaving her nest under the
eaves of a house, flew with great force against a door
in the garden wall painted a dull blue. The beak
was partly broken and the bird completely stunned :
she died in a few minutes. There was some one in
the garden close by at the time : his presence may
have frightened the swallow ; 3'et they are not usually
timid where their nests are undisturbed. Perhaps in
her hurr}^ the dull blue color of the gate may have
deceived her sight ; but she must have travelled that
way a hundred times before.

Swallows frequentl}- come down the great chim-
ne3's at the farmhouse and are found in the rooms,
but are always allowed to escape from the window.
Swallows are said not to perch ; but I have seen
them repeatedly perch on those sticks which, where
the thatch has somewhat deca3'ed, project a few
inches above the roof-tree. Sometimes a row of half
a dozen may be observed settled on the roof here.
You may see them, too, perch on the topmost boughs
of the tall damson trees in the orchard ; and again,
later in the autumn, after nesting is over, they as-
semble in hundreds — one might almost sa^' thousands

138 JSTests.

— in the withy bed by the brook, settling on the
slender willow wands. There the}^ twitter together
for an hour or more every evening. They can rise
without the slightest difficulty from the ground, if it
is level and not encumbered with grass, as from the
surface of the roads. On dull cold daj's they settle
on the house more frequently thau when it is bright
and sunnj'.

At one end of the farmhouse, which is an irregular
building, there is a quiet gable, and in it a casement
arched over b}' the thatch and shaded b}' a thick
growth of ivy. The casement is low, and not more
than eight or nine feet from the ground ; the ivj^-has
climbed the wall, it has spread too over the massive ,
wall of the garden which just there abuts upon the
house, so that there is a secluded corner formed by
the angle. Here some time ago a number of logs of
timber — oak, such as are sawn up into posts for field
gateways — were left leaning half against the garden
wall, half against the house, just under the window.
There the}^ have remained (there is never any hurry
about things in the country) so long that the moss
has begun to encase the lower portions. What with
the projecting thatch, the thick ivy, the timber thrown
carelessly beneath, the lichen-grown garden Avail, and
a large bush of lilac in the angle, the place could
hardly be more quiet, and is consequently a favorite
resort of the birds.

Within reach from the window the swallows have
their nests, and the sparrows their holes, on the right
hand ; within reach on the left hand, among the ivy,
the water-wagtail has built her nest 3'ear after year.
The wagtail may always be seen about the place —

A Cuckoo comes to the House. 139

now in the cow^ards among the cattle, now in the
rickyard, and even close to the door of the dwelling-
house, especially frequenting the courtyard in front
of the dairy. As he flies he rises up and then sinks
again, in a succession of undulations, now spreading
the tail out and now closing it. On the ground he
generally ahghts near water ; he is continually' jerking
the tail up and down.

One spring a cuckoo came to this nest in the iv}'
close to the casement ; she was seen flj'ing near the
house several times, and, being observed to visit the
iv3'-covered gable, was finally traced to the wagtail's
nest. For several days in succession, and several
times a day, the cuckoo came, and would doubtless
have left an egg had not she been shot by a person
who wanted a cuckoo to stuff.

It 'is difficult to understand upon what principle
the cuckoo selected a nest thus placed. The ordi-
nary considerations put forward as guiding birds and
animals in their actions quite fail. Instinct would
scarcely- choose a spot so close to a house — actually
on it ; the desire of safety would not lead to it either,
nor the idea of concealment. She might, no doubt,
have found nests enough at a distance from houses,
and much more likely to escape observation. Was
there any kind of feeling that this particular wagtail was
more likely to take care of the oftspringthan others?

I doubt the cuckoo's alleged total indifterence to
her young. The^' certainly linger in the neighbor-
hood of the nests which they have selected to deposit
their eggs in. On another occasion a cuckoo used a
wagtail's nest in a difterent part of the garden here
— in some ivy that had grown round the decaying

140 Birds like Pear Trees.

stump of an old fir tree. This bird was watched, but
not interfered with ; she came repeatedl}', and was
seen on the nest, and the egg observed. Afterwards
a cuckoo sang continuous!}' da}- after day on an ash
tree close to the garden.

Lower down in the ivy, behind the logs of timber
under the casement, the hedge-sparrow builds every
3'ear ; and on the wood itself where the trunks formed
a little recess was a robin's nest. The hedge-spar-
row, unlike his noisy namesake, is one of the quietest
of birds : he slips about in the hedges and bushes all
round the garden so quietly and unobtrusively that
unless you watch carefull}^ you will not see him. Yet
he does not seem shy, and if you sit still will come
along the hawthorn within a 3'ard.

In the thatch — under the eaves of the cellar, which
are not more than four feet from the ground and
come up to the ivy of the gable — the wren has a
nest. Some birds seem always to make their nests
in one particular kind of way, and generally in the
same kind of tree or bush ; robins, house-sparrows,
and starlings, on the other hand, adjust their nests to
all sorts of places.

The window of a room in which I used to sleep
overlooked the orchard, and there was a pear tree
trained against the wall, some of the boughs of which
came up to the window-sill. This pear tree acted as
a ladder, up which the birds came. Pear trees are a
good deal frequented by many birds ; their rough
bark seems to shelter numerous insects. The win-
dow was left open all night in the sultry summer
weather, and presently a robin began to come in very
earl}- in the morning. Encouraged by finding that

Morning Visitors. 141

no one disturbed him, at List he grew bold enough to
perch morning after morning on the rail at the foot
of my bed. First he seemed to examine the inside
of tlie window, then went on the floor, and, after a
good loolc round, finally finished by sitting on the
wooden framework for a few minutes before departing.

This went on some time ; then a wren came too ;
she likewise looked to see if any thing edible could
be found in the window first. Old-fashioned windows
often have a broad sill inside — the window frame
being placed nearly at the outer edge of the wall, so
that the thickness of the wall forms a recess, which
is lined with board along the bottom. Now this
wooden lining was decayed and drilled with innu-
merable holes by boiing insects, which threw up tiny
heaps of sawdust, as one might say, just as moles
throw np mounds of earth where they tunnel. Per-
haps these formed an attraction to the wren. She
also frequently visited an old-fashioned bookcase,
on the top of which — it was very low — I often left
some old worm-eaten fohos and quartos, and may
have occasionally picked up something there. Once
only she ventured to the foot of the bed. After leav-
ing the room she always perched on a thin iron pro-
jection which held the window open, and uttered her
singularly loud notes, their metallic clearness seeming
to make the chamber ring. Starlings often perched
on the same iron slide, and sparrows continually ;
but only the robin and wren came inside. Tomtits
occasionally entered and exploited the same board-
lining of the window, but no farther. They will,
however, sometimes explore a room.

I know a parlor the window of which was partly

142 Rohins Pugnacious.

OA^erhung hy a similar pear tree, besides which there
were some shrubs just outside, and into this room,
being quiet and httle used, the tomtits ventured
ever}^ now and then. I fancy the placing of flowers
in vases on the table or on the mantelpiece attracts
birds to rooms, if they are still. Insects visit the
flowers ; birds look for the insects : and this room
generally abounded with cut flowers. Entering it
suddenly one day, a tomtit flew from side to side in
great agitation, and then dropped on the floor and
allowed me to pick it up without an effort to escape.
The bird had swooned from fright, and was quite
helpless — the eyes closed. On being placed outside
the window in five minutes it came to itself and flew
off' feebl}'. In this way birds may frequently become
a prey to cats and hawks when to all appearance
they might easily escape — becoming so overwhelmed
with alarm as to lose the power of motion.

The robin is a most pugnacious creature. He will
fight furiously with a rival ; in fact, he never misses
an opportunit}^ of fighting. But he always chooses
the very early morning for these encounters, and so
escapes suspicion, except, of course, from people who
rise early too. It is even said that the young cock
robins, when they are full grown, turn round on their
own parents and fight with them vigorously. Neither
is he a favorite with the upper class of cottagers —
for there is an ' upper ten ' even among cottagers —
who have large fruit-gardens. In these they gi-ow
quantities of currants for preserving purposes. The
robin is accused of being a terrible thief of currants,
and meets with scant mercy.

Sometimes while walking slowly along the foot-

The Eye sees what it eomes to see. 143

path in a lane with hedges eacli side a robin will dart
out of the hawthorn and pick up a worm or grub
almost under 3'our feet ; then in his alarm at your
presence drop it, and rush back in a flutter. Other
birds will do the same thing, from which it would
seem that the old saying that the e3-e sees what it
comes to see is as applicable to them as to human
beings. Their eyes, ever on the watch for food,
instantly detect a tiny creeping thing several yards
distant, though concealed hy grass ; but the com-
paratively immense bulk of a man appears to escape
notice till the}- fly almost up against it.

I fancy that the hive bee and some kindred insects
have a special faculty of seeing color at a distance,
and that colors attract them. It can hardly be scent,
because when flowers are placed in a room and the
window left open the wind generally blows strongly
into the apartment, and odors will not travel against
a breeze. It seems natural that in both cases the
continual watch for certain things should enable bird
and insect to observe the faintest indication. Slugs,
caterpillars, and such creatures, too, in moving
among the grass, cause a slight agitation of the
grass-blades ; they lift up a leaf by crawling under
it, or depress it with their weight by getting on it.
This may enable the bird to detect their presence,
even when quite hidden by the herbage, experience
having taught it that when grass is moved by the
wind broad patches swa}- simultaneously^ but when
an insect or caterpillar is the agent only a single leaf
or blade is stirred.

At the farmhouse here, robins, wrens, and tomtits
are always hanging about the courtyard, especially

] 44 Thrushes.

close to the dairy, where one or other ma}^ be con-
staiitl}' seen perched on the pahngs ; neither do they
scruple to enter the dairy, the brewhouse, or wood-
house adjacent, when they see a chance. The logs
(for fuel) stored in the latter doubtless attbrd them
insects from under the dead bark.

Among the most constant residents in the garden
at Wick Farm are the song thrushes. They are the
tamest of the larger birds ; they come every morning
right under the old bay-window of the sitting-room
on the shady side of the house, where the musk-plant
has spread abroad and covered the stone-pitching for
many yards, except just a narrow path paved with
broad flagstones. The musk finds root in every in-
terstice of the pitching, but cannot push up through
the solid flat flags ; a fungus, however, has attempted
even that, and has succeeded in forcing a great stone,
weighing perhaps fifteen or twenty pounds, from its
bed, so that instead of being level it forms an inclined
plane. The carpet of musk yields a pleasant odor ;
in one corner, too, the ' monkey-plant ' grows luxu-
riously, and the grass of the green or lawn is for ever
trying to encroach upon the paving. In the centre
of the green is a bed of gooseberries and a cherry
tree ; and though the fruit is so close to the window,
both thrush and blackbird make as free with it as if
it was in the hedgerow.

The thrush, when he wishes to approach the house,
flies first to the cover of these gooseberries ; then,
after reconnoitring a few minutes, comes out on the
green and gradually works his way across it to the
stone-pitching, and so along under the very window.
The blackbird comes almost as often to the lawn, but

The Blackbird as a Sentinel. 14:5

it is in a different way. His manner is tliat of a bold
marauder, conscious that he has no right, and aware
that a shot from an ambuscade may lay him low, but
detiantly risking the danger. He perches first on a
bush, or on the garden wall, under the sheltering
boughs of the lime trees, at a distance of some twenty'
yards ; then, waiting till all is clear, he makes a
desperate rush for the fruit trees or the lawn. The
moment he has succeeded in violentl}^ seizing some
delicious morsel off he goes, uttering a loud chuckle
— half as a challenge, half as a vent for his pent-up
anxiety.

This peculiar chuckle is so well known by all the
other birds as a note of alarm that every one in the
garden immediately moves his position, if only a yard
or two. When you are stealing down the side of
the hedgerow, endeaA^oring to get near enough to ob-
serve the woodpecker in a tree, or with a gun to shoot
a pigeon, the great anxiety is lest 3'ou startle a black-
bird. If he thinks you have not seen him, he is cun-
ning enough to sUp out the other side noiselessly and
fly down beside the hedge just above the ground for
some distance. He then crosses the field to a hedge
on the other side, and, just as he safely lands himself
in a thick hawthorn bush a hundred yards awa}^
defiantly utters his cry. The pigeon or the wood-
pecker will instantly glance round ; but, the cry being
at a distance, if you keep still a minute or two they
will resume their occupation. But if 3'ou should
disturb the blackbird on the side of the bank next
you, where he knows you must have seen or heard
him, or if he is obliged to come out on your side of
the hedge, then he makes the meadow ring with his
10

146 The Blackbird Coivardly yet Impudent.

alarm-note, and immediately away goes pigeon or
woodpecker, thrnshes fly further down the hedge,
and the rabbits feeding in the grass lift up their heads
and, seeing 3^011, rush to their burrows. In this way
the blackbird acts as a general sentinel.

He has two variations of this cry. One he uses
when just about to change his feeding-ground and
visit another favorite corner across the field ; it is as
much as to say, ' Take notice, all you menials ; I,
the king of the hedge, am coming.' The other is a
warning, and will very often set two or three other
blackbirds calling in the same way whose existence
till then was unsuspected. These calls are quite
distinct from his song.

Sometimes, when sitting on a rail in the shade of
a great bush — a rail placed to close a gap — I have
had a blackbird come across the meadow and perch
just above my head. Till the moment of alighting
he was ignorant of my presence, and for a second
the extremity of his astonishment litei'ally held him
speechless at his own temerit}- . The next — what
au outcry and furious bustle of excitement to escape !
So in the garden here he makes a desperate rush,
seizes his prey, and off again twenty or thirty yards,
exhibiting an amusing mixture of courage and timid-
ity. This process he will repeat fifty times a day.
No matter how terribly frightened, his assurance
quickly returns, and another foray follows ; so that
you begin by thinking him the most cowardty and
end by finding him the most impudent of birds.

I own I love the blackbird, and never weary of
observing him. There is a bold English independ-
ence about him — an insolent consciousness of his

The BlackhirtVs Bath. 147

own beauty'. He must somehow have read Shake-
speare, for he seems quite aware of his ' orange tawny
bill' and deep black hue. He might really know tluit
he figures in a famous ballad, and that four-and-
twent}^ of his species were considered a dish to set
before a king.

It is a sight to see him take his bath. In a
meadow not far from the house here is a shallow
but clear streamlet, running down a deep broad
ditch overshadowed by tall hemlock and clogweed,
arched over with willow, whose leaves when the
wind blows and their under-side is exposed give the
hedge a gray tint, with maple and briar. Hide your-
self here on a summer morning among the dry grass
and bushes, and presently the blackbird comes to
stand a minute on a stone which checks the tiny
stream like a miniature rock, and then to splash the
clear water over head and back with immense energy.
He repeats this several times, and immediately after-
wards flies to an adjacent rail, where, unfettered by
boughs, he can preen his feathers, going through his
toilet with the air of a prince. Finally, he perks his
tail up, and challenges the world with the call already
mentioned, which seems now to mean, ' Come and
see Me ; am I not handsome ? '

On a warm June day, when the hedges are cov-
ered with roses and the air is sweet with the odor
of mown grass, it is pleasant to listen to the black-
birds in the oaks pouring forth their rich liquid notes.
There is no note so sweet and deep and melodious as
that of the blackbird to be heard in our fields ; it
is even richer than the nightingale's, though not so
varied. Just before noonday — between eleven and

148 The Blachhird'' 8^ Song.

twelve — when the heat increases, he leaves the low
thick bushes and moist ditches and mounts up into
an oak tree, where, on a branch, he sits and sings.
Then another at a distance takes up the burden, till
b^'-and-by, as you listen, parti}' hidden in a gateway,
four or five are thus engaged in the trees of a single
meadow.

He sings in a quiet, leisurely way, as a great artist
should — there is no haste, no notes thickening on
notes in swift crescendo. His voice (so to speak)
drops from him, without an effort, and is so clear
that it may be heard at a long distance. It is not
a set song ; perhaps, in strict language, it is hardly
a song at all, but rather a succession of detached
notes with intervals between. Except when sing-
ing, the blackbird does not often frequent trees ;
he is a hedge-bird, though sometimes when 3'ou are
looking at a field of green corn or beans one will
rise out of it and fly to a tree — a solitar}^ tree such
as is sometimes seen in the midst of an arable field.
At Wick Farm, sitting in the cool parlor, or in the
garden under the shade of the trees, ^^ou ma}- hear
him almost ever}' morning in the meadows that come
right up to the orchard hedge. That hedge is his
favorite approach to the garden : he flies to it first,
and gradually works his wa}' along under cover till
nearer the cultivated beds. Both blackbird and
thrush are particularly fond of visiting q, patch of
cabbages in a shady, quiet corner: there are gen-
erally two or three there after the worms and cater-
pillars, and so forth.

The thrushes build in the garden in several places,
especially in an iv^'-hidden arbor — a wooden frame

Thrush and Snail. 149

completely covered with ivy and creeping flowers.
Close by is a thick box-hedge, six feet high and
nearly as mnch through, and behind this is a
low-thatched tool-honse, where spades, moletraps,
scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements are
kept. Here lies a sarsen-stone, hard as iron, about
a foot thick, the top of which chances to be smooth
and level. This is the thrush's favorite anvil.

He searches about under the ivy, under which the
snails hide in their shells in the heat of the day, and
brings them forth into the light. The shell is too
large for his beak to hold it pincer-fashion, but at
the entrance — the snail's doorway — he can thrust
his bill in, and woe then to the miserable occupant !
With a hop and a flutter the thrush mounts the stone
anvil, and there destroys his victim in workmanlike
style. Up goes his head, lifting the snail high in
the air, and then, smash ! the shell comes down on
the stone with all the force he can use. About two
such blows break the shell, and he then C00II3' chips
the fragments oflT as 3'ou might from an egg, and
makes ver}^ few mouthfuls of the contents. On the
stone and round about it lie the fragments of many
such shells — relics of former feasts. Sometimes he
will do this close to the bay-window — if all is quiet
— using the stone-flags for an anvil, if he chances
to find a snail hard by ; but he prefers the recess
behind the box-hedge. The thrushes seem half-
domesticated here ; thc}^ are tame, too, in the
hedges, and will sit and sing on a bough overhead
without fear while you wait for a rabbit on the bank
beneath.

150 Mart'ms' Nests.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ORCHARD EMIGRANT MARTINS THE JHSSEL-

THRDSH CARAVAN ROUTE OP BIRDS AND ANIMALS

A FOX IN AMBUSH A SNAKE IN A CLOCK.

Broad green paths, wide enough for three or four to
walk abreast, lead from the garden at Wick into the
orchard. On the side next the meadows the orchard
is enclosed by a hawthorn hedge, thick from constant
cropping ; on the other a solid stone wall, about nine
feet high, parts it from the road. One summer day
a party of martins attacked this wall outside, and
endeavored to make their nest-holes in it. These
birds are called by the laborers ' quar-martins,' be-
cause they breed in holes drilled in the face of the
sandy precipices of quarries. The bo3's ' draw ' their
nests — climbing up at the risk of their hrabs — by
inserting a long briar, and, when the}' feel the nest,
giving it a twist which causes the hooked prickles of
the stick to take firm hold, and, the nest is then
dragged bodil}' out. The flight that came to the
orchard wall numbered about ten or twelve, and for
the best part of the day they remained there, working
their \Qxy hardest at the mortar between the stones.

The wall being old, some of the mortar had
crumbled — it was not of the best quality — and here
and there was a small cavity. These a portion of the

An Experiment, 151

birds tried to enlarge, while others boldl}' labored in
places where no such slight openings existed. It was
interesting to watch their patient efforts as they clung
to the perpendicular wall like bats. Now, two or
three flew oft" and described a few circles in the air, as
if to rest themselves, and then again returned to work.
At last, convinced of the impossibility of penetrating
the mortar, which was much harder beneath the
surface, they went away in a body with a general
twitter leaving distinct marks of their shallow exca-
vations. The circumstance was the more interesting
because the road was much frequented (for a rural
district) and many people stopped to look at them ;
but the birds did not seem in the least alarmed, and
evidently only left because they found the wall im-
penetrable. Instinct, infallible instinct, certflilily
would not direct these birds to such an unsuitable
spot. Neither was there any peculiar advantage to
attract them ; it was not quiet or retired, but the
reverse. The incident was clearl}^ an experiment,
and when the}' found it unsuccessful they desisted.

If we suppose this flight of martins to represent
a party emigrating from a sand quarry (there were
three such quarries within a mile radius), where the
population had overflowed, it seems possible to trace
the motive which animated them. I imagine that the
old birds drive the young ones away, when the young
return to this countr}' with their parents after the
annual migration. This is particularly the case after
a very favorable breeding season, when more than
the usual proportion of young birds survive. After
such a season, upon returning next year to the sand
quarry, the older birds drive off the younger ; and if

152 Birds comhining for Defence.

these are so numerous that they cannot find room in
another part of the quarr}', they emigrate in small
parties.

I think the same tiling happens with rooks. The
older rooks will only permit a few of their last 3'ear's
offspring to build near them. If a gentleman has an
avenue of fine elm trees in which he desires to have
a rookery, but cannot contrive to attract them, though
perhaps now and then a nest is partly built and then
deserted, an experiment founded on this idea might
be tried. It would be necessary to ask the assistance
of the proprietors of the nearest rookeries, and beg
them for one year to refrain from shooting the young
rooks, after the well-known custom. An unusual
proportion of young birds would then survive, and
next building season the larger part of these would
return to the old trees and be immediately met in
battle by their older relatives. Being driven away
from the hereditary group of trees, they would resort
to the next nearest avenue or grove ; if the}- attempted
to mix with a strange tribe, they would encounter a
still fiercer resistance. In this way possibly the
avenue in question might become stocked with rooks.

One reason, I fancy, wh^' nests begun in such dis-
tant trees are so often deserted before completion is
that a sohtary nest exposes both the building birds
and their prospective offspring to grave danger from
hawks. No hawk will attempt to approach a rookery
— the rooks would attack him en masse and easily put
him to flight. Chickens are safer under or near a
rookery from this cause : a hawk approaching them
would alarm the rooks and be beaten away. The
comparative safety afibrded by numbers is perhaps

Bh-ds have a Leader. 153

a reason why many species of birds are gregarious.
The apparently' defenceless martins and swallows in
this way dwell in some amount of security. If a
hawk comes near the sand quarry (or the house —
in the case of swallows) they all join together and
pursue him, twittering angrily, and as a matter of
fact generally succeed in sending him about his busi-
ness. Even those birds which do not build in close
contiguity no sooner find that a hawk is near than
they rise simultaneously and follow and annoy Mm :
so much so that he will sometimes actually drop the
prey he has captured. It is astonishing with what
temerit}' small birds, emboldened by numbers —
chaffinches, finches generally, sparrows, swallows,
and so on — will attack a hawk.

The '■ quar-martins ' that came to the orchard wall
— emigrating from the quarry, and wandering about
in search of a suitable habitation — if young birds, as
we have supposed them to be, would naturally not yet
have had much experience, and so might think the
steep wall (roughly resembling the face of a quarry)
available for their purpose till they had made the ex-
periment. I have thought, from watching the motions
of birds that go in flights, that most of them have a
kind of leader or chief. They do not yield any thing
like the same obedience or reverence to the chief as
the bees do to the queen-bee, and exhibit little traces
of following his motions implicitly. He is more like
the president of a republic ; each member is individ-
ually free, and twitters his or her mind just as he or
she likes. But it seems to be reserved to one bird to
give the signal for all to move. So these martins,
after lingering about the wall for hours — some of

154 A Baffled Murderer.

them, too, leaving it and flying away ow\y t© come
back again — finall}' started altogetlier. It is diffi-
cult to account for such simultaneous and combined
movements, unless we suppose that it is reserved to
a certain bird to give the signal.

In the fork of a great apple tree — a Blenheim
orange — the missel-thrush has built her nest. Missel-
thrushes doubtless of the same faraih' have used the
tree for manj' years. Though the nest is large, the
3'oung birds as they grow up soon get too big for it
and fall out. This period — just before the j^oung
can fly — is the most critical in their existence, and
causes the greatest anxiety to the parents. Without
the resource of flight, weak and unable even to
scramble fast through the long grass, betra3'ing their
presence by continually crying for food, they are ex-
posed to dangers from every species of vermin.

The missel-thrush is a bold, determined bird, and
does his utmost in the defence of his oftspring.
When the 3'oung birds fall out of the nest (so soon
as one has clambered over, the others quickly follow),
the parents rarely leave the orchard together. One
or other is almost always close at hand. If any
enemy approaches the}- immediatel}' set up an angiy
chattering, b^' which noise you may at once know
what is going on. I have seen two missel-thrushes
attack a crow in this way. The crow came and
perched upon a bough within a yard of their nest,
which contained young. The old birds were there
immediately, and they so annoyed and buffeted the
murderous robber that he left without achieving his
fell purpose.

The cat is the worst enemy of the missel-thrush.

Tree-climhers. 155

It is noticeable that while these thrushes will attack
an}' thing that flies they are not so bold on the ground,
but seem afraid to alight. The}' will strike even at
the human hand that touches their nest. The crow,
strong as he is, they courageously drive away ; but the
enemy that stealthily approaches along the ground to
the helpless 3'oung bird in the grass they cannot re-
sist. On the wing they can retreat quickly if pressed ;
on the ground they cannot move so swiftly, and may
themselves fall a pre}- without affording any assist-
ance. The missel-thrushes come to the orchard
frequently after the nesting season is over and before
it commences. The}' do not seem in search of food,
but alight on the trees as if to view their propert3\
They are strong on the wing, and fl}' direct to their
object: there is something decided, courageous, and,
as one might say, manly in their character.

The bark of some of the apple trees peels of itself
— that is, the thin outer skin — and insects creep
under these brown scales curled at the edges. If
you sit down on the elm butt placed here as a seat
and watch quietly, before long the little tree-climber
will come. He flies to the trunk of the apple tree
(other birds fl}' to the branches) , and then proceeds
to ascend it, going round it as he rises in a spiral.
His claws cling tenaciously to the bark, his tail
touches the tree, and seems to act as a support —
like what I think the carpenters call a ' knee ' —
and his head is thrown back so as to enable him to
spy into ever}' cranny he passes. After a few turns
round the trunk he is off to another tree, to resume
the same restless spiral ascent there ; and in a
minute or so off again to a third ; for he never

156 Sappy Goldfinches.

apparently examines one-half of the trunk, though,
probably', his eyes, accustomed to the work, see
farther than we may imagine. The orchard is never
long without a tree-climber : it seems a favorite re-
sort of these birds. The}' have a habit of rushing
quickly a little way up ; then pausing, and again
creeping swiftly another foot, or so, and are so
absorbed in their pursuit that they are easil}^ ap-
proached and observed.

Who can sta}^ indoors when the goldfinches are
busy among the bloom on the apple trees? A flood
of sunshine falling through a roof of rosy pink and
delicate white blossom overhead ; underneath, grass
deeply- green with the vigor of spring, dotted with
yellow buttercups, and strewn with bloom shaken by
the wind from the trees : is not this better than for-
mal-patterned carpets, and the white flat ceilings that
weigh so heavily upon the sight? Listen how happy
the goldfinches are in the orchard. Summer after
summer they build in the same trees — bushy-headed
codlings ; generation after generation has been born
there and gone forth to enjoj^ in turn the pleasures
of the field.

A 3-ear — nay, a single summer — must be a long
time in their chronology, for tlie}' are so very, very
busy : a bright sunshiny day must be like a month to
them. Now coquetting, now splashing at the sand}'
edge of a shallow streamlet till the golden feathers
glisten from the water and the red topknot shines,
awa}' again along the hedgerow searching for seeds,
singing all the while, and the tiny heart beating so
rapidl}' as to compress twice as many beats of emo-
tion into the minute as our sluggish organizations

Routes of the Birds. 157

are capable of. Though a path much frequented by
the household passes beneath the trees in which the}'
build, they show no fear.

Just as men from various causes congregate in
particular places, so thei-e are spots in the llelds —
in the country generally — which appear to specially
attract birds of all kinds. Wide districts are almost
bare of them : on a single farm j'ou ma}- often find
a great meadow which scarcely seems to have a
bird in it, while another little oddlj'-cornered field
is populous with them. This orchard and garden at
Wick is one of the favorite places. It is like one of
those Eastern marts where men of fifty ditferent na-
tionalities, and picturesquely clad, jostle each other
in the bazaars : so here feathered travellers of every
species have a kind of leafy capital. When the
nesting time is over the goldfinches quit the orchard,
and only return for a brief call now and then. I
almost think the finches have got regular caravan
routes round and across the fields which they travel
in small bands.

In the meadow, just without the close-cropped
hawthorn which encloses one side of the orchard,
is a thick hedge, the end of which comes right up
to the apple trees, being only separated by the ha-
ha wall and a ditch. This hedge, dividing two
meadows, is about two hundred yards long and
well grown with a variety of underwood, hazel,
willow, maple, hawthorn, blackthorn, elder, &c.,
and studded with some few elms and ashes, and
a fine horse-chestnut. Down the ditch for some
distance runs a little stream (except in a long
drought) ; and where another hedge branches from

158 Journeys of the Finches.

it is a hollow space arched over and roofed with
boughs. Now this hedge is a favorite liighwaj of
birds and other wild creatures, and leads direct to
the orchard. Most of the visitors to the house and
garden come down it — it is one of their cara^s an
routes.

If on a summer's morning you go and sit in the
gateway about half-wa}' up the hedge, partly hidden
by a pollard ash and great hawthorn bushes, 3'ou will
not have long to wait before you hear the pleasant
calls of the greenfinches coming. They seem always
to travel two or more pairs together, and constantly
utter a soothing call, as if to say to their companions,
' Here we are, close by, dearest.' They all appear to
know exactly where the}- are going — flitting across
the gateway one by one, moving of one accord in the
same direction ; and their contented notes gradually
become inaudible as they go towards the orchard.
The goldfinches use the same route ; so do the bull-
finches. Even the starlings, before they come to the
house, usually perch on an ash tree in this hedge.

There is another hedge, running parallel to it,
one hundred and fifty 3'ards distant, the end of
which also approaches the premises, but it is com-
paratively deserted. You ma^^ wait there in vain
and see nothing but a robin.

'By the same caravan route the blackbirds come to
the garden ; they, however, are not such travelling
birds as the finches. But the tomtits are : they
work their wa}^ from tree to tree for miles ; they
also come to the orchard by this hedge highwa}'.
As I have said before, it abuts on the orchard ; and
a straight line carried across to the orchard wall,

Eggs. 150

over that and the road outside, would strike another
great hedge which, were it not for the intervention
of the garden, would be a continuation of the first.
The finches, after spending a little time in the apple
and damson trees, fl^' over the wall and road to this
second hedge, and follow it down for nearly half a
mile to a little enclosed meadow, which, like the
orchard, is a speciall}' favorite resort. The fondness
of birds for this route is very striking ; they are con-
stantly passing up or down it. There is another
such a fiivorite route at some distance, running
beside a brook and likewise leading to the same en-
closed meadow — of which more presently. I think
I could make a map of these fields, showing the routes
and resorts of furred and feathered creatures.

Near the ha-ha wall, where the great meadow-
hedge comes up to the orchard, is a summer-house,
with a conical thatched roof and circular window. It
is hung all round under the ceiling with festoons of
eggs taken by the boys of the farmstead, cordially
assisted b}' the carters' lads when not at work. There
may be perhaps fort}' varieties, arranged so as to in-
crease in size from the tiny tomtits up to the large
wood-pigeons, the peewits, corn-crake, and crow ;
some milk-white, others splotched with dark brown
spots and veins, others again blue. These eggs,
when taken and the yolk blown out, were strung on
a bennet and so carried home. The lads like to get
them as soon after laid as possible, because they blow
best then ; if hard set the shell may break.

In the circular window they have left a nest of the
long-tailed tit, or ' tit-mouse,' built exactly in the
shape of a hut with roof and tiny doorwaj', and al-

160 Tlie Flyeatcher.

ways securely attached in the midst of a thorn bush
to branches that are stiff and unlikely to bend with
the breeze, so that this beautiful piece of bird archi-
tecture ma}' not be disturbed. To take it, it is gen-
erally necessary to cut away several boughs. Such
nests are often seen in farmhouses placed as an orna-
ment on the mantelpiece. Spiders have filled the
window with their webs, and to these every now and
then during the da}' — there is no door to the sum-
mer-house— come a robin, a wren, and a flycatcher.
Either of these, but more particularly the two last,
will take insects from the spider's web.

The fl^'catcher has a favorite perch close by, and
may perhaps hear the shrill buzz when an insect is
caught. The fl3'catcher is a regular summer visitor :
in the orchard, garden, and adjacent riek3'ard at least
three pairs build every 3'ear, Under the shady apple
trees near the summer-house one may be seen the
whole day long ever on the watch. He perches ou
a dead branch, low down — not up among the boughs,
but as much as possible under them. Every two or
three minutes he flies swiftly from his perch a few
yards, darts on an insect — you cannot see it, but can
distinctly hear the snap of the bill — and returns to
his post. He uses the same perch for half an hour or
more ; then shifts to another at a little distance, and
so works all round the orchard, but regularly comes
back to the same spot. By waiting near it you may
be certain of seeing him presently ; and he is very
tame, and will carry on operations within a few yards
— sometimes picking up a fly almost within reach of
3'our hand. It is noticeable that many insect-eating
birds are especially tame. They will occasionally

A Pair of Squirrels. 161

dart after a moth, but drop it again — as if they did
not care for that Ivind of food, and yet could not
resist the habit of snapping at such things.

I once saw a flycatcher rush after a buff-colored
moth, which fluttered aimlessly out of a shady recess :
he snapped it, held it a second or two while hovering
in the air, and then let it go. Instantly a swallow
swooped down, caught the moth, and bore it thirty
or forty feet high, then dropped it, when, as the moth
came slowl}- down, another swallow seized it and car-
ried it some yards and then left hold, and the poor
creature after all went free. I have seen other in-
stances of swallows catching good-sized moths to let
them go again.

The brown linnet is another regular visitor build-
ing in the orchard ; so too the blackcap, whose song,
though short, is sweet ; and the bold bright bull-
finches use the close-cropped hawthorn. They have
always a nest there made of slender fibres dexterously
interwoven. There is a group of elms near the further
end of the enclosure and another by the rickyard ;
linnets seem fond of elms.

A pair of squirrels sometimes come down the same
hedge — it is a favorite highway of wild animals as
well as birds — to the orchard, and pla}' in the apple
trees : the}' even venture to a tree only a few jards
from the house. If not disturbed they stay a good
while, and then return by the way they came to a
copse at the top of the meadow. The corner formed
by the hedge and the copse — quiet, but in easy view
from the house — is especially frequented by them.
Their lively motions on the ground are very amusing :
they visit the ground much oftener than maj' be gen-
ii

162 Tricks of Squirrels.

erally supposed. Fir trees seem to attract them —
where there is a plantation of firs 3'ou may be sure
of finding a squirrel.

When alarmed or chased a squirrel always ascends
the tree on the opposite side awa}^ from you — he will
not run to a solitary tree if he can possibly avoid it :
he hkes a group, and his trick is, the moment he
thinks he is out of sight among the upper branches,
to slip quietly from one tree to the other till, while
you are scanning ever}" bough, he has travelled fifty
yards away unnoticed. If the branches are not close
enough to hide him, he gets as much as possible be-
hind a large branch, and stretches himself along it —
at the same time his tail, which at other times is bushy,
seems to contract, so that he is less visible. He will
leap in his alarm to dead branches, and, though his
weight is trifling, occasionally they snap under the
sudden impact ; but that does not distress him in the
least, because a bough rarely breaks clean off" but
hangs suspended by bark or splinters, so that he can
scramble to the ivy that winds round the trunk. Or
if he is obliged to slip down, the next branch catches
him ; and I have never seen a squirrel actually fall,
though sometimes in their frightened haste they will
send a number of little dead twigs rustling down-
wards. When the tail is spread, out, so to say, its
texture is so fine and silky that the light seems to
play through it. They love this particular corner
because just there the hedge is composed of hazel
bushes, and even when the nuts are gone from the
branches they still find some which have dropped
upon the bank and are hidden in the drj^ grass and
brown leaves.

Bligrations of Rabbits. 163

In this corner, too, the bank being (by and sancl3',
there is a large settlement of rabbits, and now and
then some of these find their waj' to the orchard and
garden along the hedge. Rabbits have their own
social laws and customs adapted to the special con-
ditions of their way of life. At the breeding season
there seems to be a tendency to migi-ate on the part
of the younger rabbits from the great ' bur}' ' hitherto
their home. Many solitary holes at some distance ai'e
then occupied, and the fresh sand thrown out shows
that a tenant has entered on possession. In this-way
one or two take up their residence more than half-wa}''
down the hedge towards the orchard. Then the doe
seems to have a desire to separate herself at a certain
period from the rest. She goes out into the mowing
grass perhaps thirt}' 3'ards from the ' bury,' and there
the young are born in a short hole excavated for
the purpose. The young rabbits naturally remain
close to their birthplace : they are conducted to the
hedge as soon as they are old enough to run about ;
and so a fresh colony is formed. As they get larger,
or, say, soon after midsummer, they appear to show
a tendency to roam ; and b}' the autumn, if left un-
disturbed, descendants from the original settlement
will have pushed outposts to a considerable distance.
These, having been bred near, have little fear of
entering the orchard, or even the garden, and next
season will rear their offspring close at hand and feed
in the enclosure, using the close-cropped hawthorn as
a cover.

Weasels also occasionally come down the hedge
into the orchard for the various prey they lind there ;
they visit the out-houses and sheds, too, at intervals

164 Mice.

in the cattle yards adjoining the house. More rarely
the stoat does the same. A weasel may frequently
be found prowling in the highway hedge. When a
weasel runs fast on a level hard surface — as across
a road — the hinder quarters seem everj' now and
then to jump up as if rebounding from the surface ;
his legs look too short for the speed he is going. This
peculiar motion gives them when in haste an odd
appearance. In a less degree, a mouse rushing in
alarm across a road does the same. The motion
ceases the moment mouse or weasel reaches the turf,
which is rarely quite level.

The brown field-mouse may be found in the
orchard hedge, but is so unobtrusive that his pres-
ence is hardly observed. There are mau}' more of
these mice in the hedges than are suspected to be
there ; their little bodies shp about so near the
surface of the brown earth, the color of which they
resemble, that few notice them unless they chance to
be calling each other in their shrill treble. Even
then, though the sound be audible, the mouse is
invisible ; but you cannot sit quiet in a hedge very
long in summer without becoming aware of their
presence. Some of the older branches of the haw-
thorn bushes, bent down when young by the hedge-
cutter, are nearly horizontal and free for some part
of their length of* twigs. The mice run along these
natural bridges from one part of the hedge to the
other.

Last spring I watched a mouse very busil}^ en-
gaged sitting on such a branch, about a foot above
the bank, nibbling the tender top leaves of the
' chte ' plant. The ' elite ' grows with great rapidity,

A Fox in a Drain. 165

and climbs up into the hedge ; this plant had already
pushed up ten or twelve inches, so that the mouse on
the branch was just about on a level with the upper
and tenderest leaves. These he drew towards him
with his fore feet and conplacently nibbled. When
he had picked out what suited his fancy he ran along
the branch, and in an instant was lost to sight on
the bank among the grass.

The nests of the ' harvest trow ' — a still smaller
mouse, seldom seen except in summer — are common
in the grass of the orchard ( and in almost every
meadow ) before it is mown. As the summer wanes
their dead bodies are frequently' found in the foot-
paths ; for a kind of epizoic seems to seize them at
that time, and they die in numbers. It is curious
that an animal which carefully conceals itself in
health should at the approach of death seek an open
and exposed place like a footpath worn clear of
grass.

In the ha-ha wall, at that part of the orchard
where the highway hedge comes up, is the square
mouth of a rather large drain. The drain itself is of
rude construction — two stones on edge and a third
across at the top. It comes from the cowyard, pass-
ing under the outermost part of the garden a consid-
erable distance away from the house. Very early
one morning the laborers, coming to work, saw a fox
slip into the mouth of the drain through the long
grass of the meadow on which it opened. In the
summer, the cattle l^eing all out in the fields, the
drain was perfectly dr}', and it was known that now
and then the rabbits from the hedge made use of it
as a temporary place of concealment. No doubt the

166 ReynarcCs Ambuscade.

presence of a rabbit in it was the cause of the fox
entering in the first place. The rabbit must have
had a very bad time of it, for, the drain being closed
at the other end with an iron grating, no possibility
of escape existed.

From the traces in the grass and on the dry mud
at the mouth it appeared as if the fox had ventured
there more than once ; and, as there were many
chickens about, his object in 13'ing here was evident.
The great hedge being so near, and the narrow space
between full of tall mowing grass — the edge of the
ha-ha wall, too, clothed with stonecrop and grasses
growing in the interstices of the loose stones, and
further sheltered by a low box hedge — it was a place
almost made on purpose for Re3-nard's cunning am-
buscade. He is as bold or even bolder than he is
cunning. A young dog sent up the drain came back
quicker than he went, and refused to venture a second
time. The fox remained there all day, and of course
' made tracks ' at night, knowing that his presence
had been discovered by the commotion and talking
at the mouth of his cave. He might easily have been
captured, but that was not attempted on account of
the hunt.

Tliough the fox as a general rule sleeps during
the day, he does not always, but sometimes makes a
successful foray in broad daylight. Fowls, for in-
stance, at night roost in the sheds at some height
from the ground — often the sheds are contrived
specially to protect them : but in the da}' they roam
about in the vicinity of the rick3'ards where they are
kept. The}" will make runs down the centre of a
double-mound hedge, and while thus ramblino; occa-

SnaTces. 167

sionally stroll into the jaws of their foe, who has been
patiently waiting hidden in the long grass and under-
wood. In the day, too, rabbits often sit out in a
biuich of grass, or dr^' furrow, a long way from the
' bury.' Tlieir form is usuall}' within a few paces of
a well-marked ' run ' — the}' follow the run out into
the field, and then leave it and go among the grass at
one side. The run, therefore, sometimes acts as a
guide to the fox, who, sheltered by the tall bennets
and thick bunches, occasionally glides up it in the
daytime to his pre}'.

There is sure to be a snake or two in the grass
of the orchard during the summer, especially if there
chance to be an old manure-heap anywhere near ;
for that is the place in which they like to leave their
chains of white eggs, out of which, if broken, the
little snakes issue only two or three inches in length.
The heat of the manure-heap acts as an incubator.
When it is wet and the hay cannot be touched, the
hay-makers, there being nothing else for them to do,
are put to turn such heaps, and frequently find the
eggs of snakes. These creatures now and then get
inside farmhouses, whose floors are generally on a
level with the surface of the earth or nearly so. They
have been found in the clockease — the old upright
eight-da}^ clock, standing on the floor ; they come
after the frogs that enter at the doors — always
wide open in summer — and are supposed also to
eat crumbs.

In the cellar there is sure to be a toad under the
barrels on the cool stone-flags ; in the garden there
is another, purposely kept in the cucumber- frame to
protect the plant from being eaten by creeping things.

168 Birds in Winter.

It is curious to notice that they both seem to flourish
equall}^ well — one in the coolest, the other in the
hottest place. A third may generally be found in
the strawberrj'-bed. Strawberries are much eaten by
insects of many kinds ; so that the toad really does
good service in a garden.

In winter, when snow is on the ground, a few larks
sometimes venture into the garden where anj^ thing
green yet shows above the white covering on the
patches. If the weather is severe, the moor-hen will
come up from the brook, though two fields distant,
in the night, and the marks of her feet may be traced
round the house. Then, as the evening approaches,
the wild ducks pass over, and every now and then
during the night the weird cries of waterfowl resound
in the frosty air. The heron sails slowly over every
night and every morning backwards and forwards
from the mere to the water-meadows and the brook,
uttering his unearthly call at intervals.

Wrens in the Wood-jyile. 169

CHAPTER X.

THE WOOD-PILE LIZARDS SHEDS AND RICKYARD

THE witches' briar INSECTS PLANTS, FLOWERS,

AND FRUIT.

The farmhouse at Wick has the gardens and orchard
ah-eady mentioned upon one side, and on the other
are the cart-houses, sheds, and rickj-ard. Between
these latter and the dwelling runs a broad roadway
for the wagons to enter and leave the fields, and on
its borders stands a great wood-pile. The fagots cut
in the winter from the hedges are here stacked up as
high as the roof of a cottage, and near b}^ lies a heap
of ponderous logs waiting to be split for firewood.
From exposure to the weather the bark of the fagot-
sticks has turned black and is rapidly decaying, and
under it innumerable insects have made their homes.
For these, probably, the wrens visit the wood-pile
continually ; if in passing any one strikes the fagots
with a stick, a wren will generall}- fiy out on the
opposite side. They creep like mice in between the
fagots — there are numerous interstices — and thus
sometimes pass right through a corner of the stack.
Sometimes a pole which has been lying by for a length
of time is found to be curiously chased, as it were,
all over the surface under the loose bark by creeping
things. They eat channels interweaving and winding

170 Lizards.

in and out in an intricate pattern, occasionally a little
resembling the Moorish stjie of ornamentation seen
on the .walls of the Alhambra. I have found poles
so curiously carved like this that the idea naturall}^
occurred of using them for cabinet work. They
might at least have supplied a hint for a design.
Besides the wrens, many other birds visit the wood-
pile — sparrows are perpetually coming, and on the
retired side towards the meadow the robins build their
nests. On the ridge where some of the sticks project
the swallows often perch and twitter — generally a
pair seem to come together.

It takes skill as well as mere strength even to do
so simple a thing as to split the rough logs l^'ing here
on the ground. They are not like those Abraham
Lincoln began life working at — even-grained wood,
quickly divided, but tough and full of knots strangely
twisted ; so that it needs judgment to put the wedges
in the right place.

Near the wood-pile is a well and a stone trough
for thirst}^ horses to drink from, and as the water,
carelessly pumped in by the carters' lads, frequentlj''
overflows, the ground just there is usually moist. If
one of the loose oak logs with the grass growing up
round it that lie here is rolled over, occasionally a
lizard may be found under it. This lizard is slender,
and not more than three or four inches in length,
general color a yellowish green. Where one is found
a second is commonly close by. They are elegantly
shaped, and quick in their motions, speedil}- making
off. They may now and then be discovered under
large stones, if there is a crevice, in the meadows.
They do not in the least resemble the ordinary ' land-

A Carpenter s Workshop. 171

lizard,' which is a much coarser-looking and larger
creature, and is not an inhabitant of this locality : at
all events it is rare enough to have escaped me here,
though I have often observed it in districts where the
soil is light and sandy and where there is a good deal
of heath-land. The land-lizards will stroll indoors if
the door be left open. These lesser but more elegant
lizards appear to prefer a damp spot — cool and moist,
but not positively wet.

A large shed built against the side of the adjacent
stable is used as a carpenter's workshop — much car-
penter's work is done on a farm — and here is a bench
with a vice and variety of tools. When sawing, the
Avood operated on often ' ties ' the saw, as it is called
— that is, pinches it — which makes it hard to work ;
a thin wedge of wood is then inserted to open a wa^',
and the blade of the saw rubbed with a little grease,
which the metal, heated by the friction, melts into
oil. This eases the work — a little grease, too, will
make a gimlet bore quicker. Country carpenters
keep this grease in a horn — a cow's horn stopped at
the larger end with a piece of wood and at the other
by its own natural growth. Now the mice (which
are everywhere on farm premises) are so outrageously
fond of grease that the}' will spend any length of
time gnaw-gnaw-gnawing till they do get at it. Right
through the solid stopper of wood they eat their way,
and even through the horn ; so that the carpenter is
puzzled to know how to preserve it out of their reach.
It is of no use putting it on a shelf, because they
either rush up the wall or drop from above. At last,
however, he has hit upon a dodge.

He has suspended the horn high above the ground

172 A Mouse on the Tiyht-rope.

bjf a loop of copper wire, which projects six or eight
inches from the wall, like a lamp on a bracket. The
mice may get on the bench, and may run np the wall,
but when they get to the wire the}' cannot walk out
on it — like tight-rope walking — the more especially
as the wire, being thin and flexible, bends and swa3-s
if they attempt it. This answers the purpose as a
rule ; but even here the cari)enter declares that once
now and then his horn is pilfered, and can only ac-
count for it by supposing that a bolder mouse than
common makes a desperate leap for it, and succeeds
in landing on the flat surface of the wooden stopper.

The shed has one small window only, which has
no glass, but is secured b}' an iron bar (he needs no
larger window, for all carpenters work with the door
open) ; and through this window a robin has entered
and built a nest in a quiet corner behind some timber.
Though a man is at work here so often, hammering
and sawing, the birds come fearlessly to their young,
and pick up the crumbs he leaves from his lun-
cheon.

Between the timber framework of the shed and
the brickwork of the adjacent stable chinks have
opened, and in these and in the chinks between the
wooden lintel of the stable-door and the bricks above
it the bats frequentl}' hide, passing the day there.
Others hide in the tiles of the roof where their nests
are made. The laboring lads often amuse them-
selves searching for these creatures, whose one ob-
ject in daylight seems to be to cling to something ;
thc}^ will hang to the coat with the claws at the
extremity of their membraneous wings, and if left
alone will creep out of sight into the pocket. There

Bats. 173

are two well-marked species of bats here — one small
and the other much larger.

The lesser bat flies nearer to the ground, and
almost always follows the contour of some object
or building. They hawk to and fro for hours in the
eA^ening under the eaves of the fiirmhouse, and fre-
quentl}' enter the great garrets and the still larger
cheese-room (where the cheese is stored to mature)
— sometimes through the windows, and sometimes
seeming to creep through holes made by sparrows
or starlings in the roof. INIoths are probably the
attraction ; of these there are generally plenty in
and about old houses. Occasionally a bat will come
into the sitting-room, should the doors be left open
on a warm summer evening : this the old folk think
an evil jomen, and still worse if in its alarm at the
attempts made to drive it away it should chance to
knock against the candle and overturn or put it out.
The}' think, too, that a bat seen in daytime is a bad
sign. Once now and then one gets disturbed by
some means in the tiles, and flutters in a helpless
manner to the nearest shelter ; for hi daylight they
seem quite at a loss, though flying so swiftly at
night.

The greater bat hawks at a considerable elevation
above houses and trees, and wheels and turns with
singular abruptness, so that some think it a test of
a good shot to bring them down. The reason how-
ever, wh}' many find it diflicult to hit a bat is because
the}' are unaccustomed to shoot at night, and not
because of its manner of flight, for it often goes quite
straight. It is also believed to be a test of good
hearing to be able to hear the low shrill squeak of

174 Roohs.

the bat uttered as it flies : the same is said of the
shrew mouse, Avhose cry is yet more faint and acute.
The swift, too, has a pecuhar kind of screech, but
easil}' heard.

Beyond the stables are the cattle-sheds and cow-
yards. These sheds are open on the side towards
the yard, supported there by a row of wooden pillars
stepped on stones to keep them from rotting. On
the large cross-beams within the swallows make their
nests. When the eggs are hard set, the bird will sit
so close that with care and a gentle manner of ap-
proach 3'ou may sometimes even stroke her back
lightly with your finger without making her rise.
They become so accustomed to men constantly in
and out the sheds as to feel little alarm. Some build
their nests higher up under the roof-tree.

To the adjoining rickyard redstarts come every
summer, building their nests there ; ' horse-matchers '
or stonechats also in summer often visit the rick3'ard,
though they do not build in it. Some elm trees
shade the ricks, and once now and then a wood-
pigeon settles in them for a little while. The coo of
the dove may be heard frequentl}^, but she does not
build very near the house.

On this farm the rookery is at some distance in
the meadows, and the rooks rarely come nearer than
the field just outside the post and rails that enclose
the rickyard, though they pass over constantly, fly-
ing low down without fear, unless some one chances
just then to come out carrying a gun. Then they
seem seized with an uncontrollable panic, and stop
short in their career by a violent eff"ort of the wings,
to wheel oflf immediately at a tangent. Perhaps no

Rats. 175

other bird shows such evident signs of recognizing
a gun. Chaflinches, it must not be forgotten, fre-
quent the rickyard in numbers.

Finally come the rats. Though trapped, shot, and
ferreted without mercy, the rats insist on a share of
the good things going. They especially haunt the
pigsties, and when the pigs are served with their
food feed with them at the same trough. Those old
rats that come to the farmstead arc cunning fierce
beasts, not to be destroyed without much dilliculty. '
They will not step on a trap, though never so clev-
erly laid ; they will face a fei'ret, unless he happens
to be particularl3^ large and determined, and bite
viciously at dogs. But with all their cunning there
is one simple trick which they are not up to : this is
to post yourself high up above the ground, when they
will not suspect your presence ; a ladder is placed
against a tree within easy shot of the pigstye, and
the gunner, having previousl}' arranged that every
thing shall be kept quiet, takes his stand on it, and
from thence kills a couple perhaps at once.

On looking back, it appears that the farmhouse,
garden, orchard, and rickyard at Wick are constantly
visited by about thirty-five wild creatures, and, in
addition, five others come now and then, making a
total of forty. Of these forty, twent^^-six are birds,
two bats, eight quadrupeds, and four reptiles. This
does not include some few additional birds that only
come at long intervals, nor those that simply flyover-
head or are heard singing at a distance.

The great meadow hedge — the highway of the
birds — where it approaches the ha-ha wall of the
orchard, is lovely in June with the wild roses bloom-

176 The Bragon-fiy.

ing on the briars which there gi'ow in profusion.
Some of these briars stretch forth into the meadow,
and then, bent down b}" their own weight, form an
arch crowned with flowers. There is an old super-
stition about these arches of briar hung out along the
hedgerow : magical cures of whooping cough and
some other diseases of childhood can, it is believed,
be effected b}^ passing the child at sunrise under the
briar facing the rising sun.

This had to be performed by the ' wise woman.'
There was one in every hamlet but a few j'ears ago
■ — and indeed here and there an aged woman retains
something like a reputation for witchcraft still. The
' wise woman ' conducted the cliild intrusted to her
care at the dawn to the hedge, where she knew there
was a briar growing in such a position tliat a person
could creep under it facing the east, and there, as the
sun rose, passed the child through.

In the hollow just beneath the ha-ha wall, where
it is moist, grow tall rushes ; and here the great
dragon-fly darts to and fro so swiftly as to leave the
impression of a line of green drawn suddenly through
the air. Though travelling at such speed, he has the
power of stopping abruptly, and instantly afterwards
returns upon his path. These handsome insects are
often placed on mirrors as an ornament in farm-
houses. The laborers will have it that thej- sting
like the hornet ; but this they say also of many other
harmless creatures, seeming to have a general dis-
trust of the insect kind. They will tell you alarming
stories of terrible sufferings — arms swollen to double
the natural size, necks inflamed, and so forth —
caused b}- the bites of unknown flies. Not being

Flies. 177

able to discover what fly it is that inflicts these poi-
sonous wounds, and having spent so many hours in
the fields without experiencing such effects, I rather
doubt these statements, though put forth in perfect
good faith ; indeed, I have often seen the amis and
chests of the men in harvest time with huge bumps
rising on them which they declared were thus caused.
The common harvest bug, which gets under the skin,
certainly does not cause such great swellings as I
have seen ; nor the stoat-fly, which latter is the most
bloodthirsty wretch imaginable.

"With a low hissing buzz, a long, narrow, and
brownish gray insect settles on your hand as you
walk among the haj", and presently you ■ feel a ting-
ling sensation, and van,y watch (if you have the
patience to endure the irritation) its body gradually
dilate and grow darker in color as it absorbs the
blood. When once thoroughly engaged, nothing will
frighten this fl}' away : you may crush him, but he
will not move from" fear: he will remain till, replete
with blood, he falls off" helpless into the grass.

The horses in the wagons have at this season to
be watched by a boy armed with a spray of ash, with
which he flicks off the stoats that would otherwise
drive the animals frantic. A green spray is a great
protection against flies ; if you carry a bough in your
hand as you walk among the meadows the}- will not
annoy 3'ou half so much. Such a bough is very
necessar}- when l^ing perdu in a dry ditch in summer
to shoot a young rabbit, and when it is essential to
keep quiet and still. Without it is difficult to avoid
lifting the hand to knock the flies away - — which
motion is sure to alarm the rabbit that may at that
12

178 Bees.

very moment be ^peeping out preparatory to issuing
from his hole. It is impossible not to pity the horses
in the ha3'fielcls on a sultry day ; despite all the care
taken, their nostrils are literally black with crowds of
flies, which constantly endeavor to crawl over the
ej^eball. Sunshine itself does not appear so potent
in bringing forth insects as the close electrical kind of
heat that precedes a thunderstorm. This is so well
known that when the flies are more than usually
busy the farmer makes haste to get in his hay, and
lets down the canvas over his rick. The cows give
warning at the same time by scampering about in the
wildest and most ludicrous manner — their tails held
up in the air — tormented by insects.

The ha-ha wall, built of loose stones, is the home
of thousands upon thousands of ants, whose nests are
everywhere here, the ground being undisturbed by
passing footsteps. They ascend trees to a great
height, and may be seen going up the trunk some-
times in a continuous stream, one behind the other
in Indian file.

In one spot on the edge of the ha-ha is a row of
beehives — the garden wall and a shrubbery shelter
them here from the north and east, and the drop of
the ha-ha gives them a clear exit and entrance. This
is thought a great advantage — not to have any hedge
or bush in front of the hives — because the bees,
heavily laden with honey or pollen, encounter no
obstruction in coming home. The}' are believed to
work more energetically when this is the case, and
they certainl}^ do seem to exhibit signs of annoyance,
as if out of temper, if they get entangled in a bush.
Indeed, if you chance to be pursued by an angry

Hornets. 179

cloud of bees whose ire 3-011 have aroused, the only
safe place is a hedge or bush, into which make haste
to thrust 3'ourself, when the boughs and leaves will
baffle them. If the hive be moved to a different
place, the bees that chance at the time to be out in
the fields collecting hone}', upon their return, finding
their home gone, are evidently at a loss. They fly
round, hovering about over the spot for a long time
before they discover the fresh position of the hive.

The great hornet, with its tinge of reddish-orange,
comes through the garden sometimes with a heavj'
buzz, distinguishable in a moment from the sound
of any other insect. All country- folk believe the
hornet's sting to be the most poisonous and painful
of an}', and will relate instances of persons losing the
use of their arms for a few days in consequence of
the violent inflammation. Sometimes the hornet
selects for its nest an aperture in an old shed near
the farmhouse. I have seen their nests quite close
to houses ; but, unless wantonly disturbed, there is
not the slightest danger from them, or indeed from
an}' other insects of this class. I think the common
hive-bees are the worst tempered of any — they re-
sent the slightest interference with their motions.
The hornet often chooses an old hollow withy-pollard
for the site of its nest.

In the orchard there is at least one nest of the
humble-bee, made at a great depth in a deserted
mouse's hole. These bees have eaten away and re-
moved the grass just round the entrance, so as to get
a clear road in and out. They are as industrious as
the hive-bee ; but, as there are not nearly so many
working together in one colony, they do not store up

180 Wasps.

any thing approaching to the same quantity of honej'.
There is a superstition that if a humble-bee buzzes
in at the window of the sitting-room it is a sure sign
of a coming visitor.

Be careful how you pick up a ripe apple, all glow-
ing orange, from the grass in the orchard ; roll it over
with 3'Our foot first, or 3'ou may chance to find that
you have got a handful of wasps. They eat away
the interior of the fruit, leaving little but the rind ;
and this very hoUowness causes the rind to assume
richer tints and a more tempting appearance. Specked
apples on the tree, whether pecked by a blackbird,
eaten by wasps or ants, always ripen fastest, and if
3'OU do not mind cutting out that portion are the
best. Such a fallen apple, when hollowed out within,
is a veritable torpedo if incautiously handled.

"Wasps are incurable drunkards. If they find
something sweet and tempting they stick to it, and
swill till they fall senseless to the ground. They are
then most dangerous, because unseen and unheard ;
and one may put one's hand on them in ignorance of
their whereabouts. Noticing once that a particular
pear tree appeared to attract wasps, though there was
little or no fruit on it, I watched their motions, and
found they settled at the mouth of certain circular
apertures that had been made in the trunk. There
the sap was slowly exuding, and to this sap the w^asps
came and sipped it till they could sip no more. The
tree being old and of small value, it was determined
to see what caused these circular holes. They were
cut out with a gouge, when the whole interior of the
trunk was found bored with winding tunnels, through
which a pistol bullet might have been passed. This

S'weet Herbs. 181

had been done by an enormous grub, as long and
large as one's finger.

Old-world plants and flowers linger still like heir-
looms in the farmhouse garden, though their pleasant
odor is oft-times choked by the gaseous fumes from the
furnaces of the steam-ploughing engines as they pass
along the road to their labor. Then a dark vapor
rises above the tops of the green elms, and the old
walls tremble and the earth itself quakes beneath the
pressure of the iron giant, while the atmosphere is
tainted with the smell of cotton-waste and oil. How
little these accord with the quiet, sunny slumber of
the homestead. But the breeze comes, and ere the
rattle of the wheels and cogs has died away, the fra-
grance of the flowers and green things has reasserted
itself. Such a sunn}' slumber, and such a fragrance
of flowers, both wild and cultivated, have dwelt round
and over the place these two hundred years, and may-
hap before that. It is perhaps a fancy only, 3'et I
think that where men and Nature have dwelt side by
side time out of mind there is a sense of a presence,
a genius of the spot, a haunting sweetness and
loveliness not elsewhere to be found. The most lav-
ish expenditure, even when guided b}' true taste, can-
not produce this feeling about a modern dwelling.

At "Wick, by the side of the garden-path, grows a
perfect little hedge of lavender ; every drawer in the
house, when opened, emits an odor of its'dried flowers.
Here, too, are sweet marjoram, rosemarj^ and rue ; so
also ba}' and th3'me, and some pot-herbs whose use
is forgotten, besides southernwood and wormwood.
They do not make medical potions at home here
now, but the lily-leaves are used to allay inflamma-

182 Wild Flowers.

tion of the skin. The house-leek had a reputation
with the cottage herbalists ; it is still talked of, but
I think yery rarely used.

Among the flowers here are beautiful dark-petalled
wallflowers, sweet-williams, sweet-briar, and pansies.
In spring the yellow crocus lifts its head from among
the grass of the green in front of the house (as the
snowdrops did also), and here and there a daffodil.
These, I think, never look so lovely as when rising
from the green sward ; the daffodils grow, too, in the
orchard. Woodbine is everywhere — cHmbing over
the garden seat under the s3'camore tree, whose
leaves are spotted sometimes with tin}- reddish dots,
the honey-dew.

Just outside the rick-yard, where the grass of the
meadow has not been mown but fed by cattle, grow
the tall buttercups, rising to the knee. The children
use the long hollow stems as tubes wherewith to suck
up the warm new milk through its crown of thick
froth, from the oaken milking-pail. There is a fable
that the buttercups make the butter j^ellow when they
come — but the cows never eat them, being so bitter ;
they eat all round close up to the very stems, but
leave them standing scrupulously'. The childi'en,
too, make similar pipes of straw to suck up the new
cider fresh from the cider-mill, as it stands in the
tubs directly after the grinding. Under the shady
trees of the orchard the hare's parsley flourishes, and
immediately without the orchard edge, on the ' shore'
of the ditch, grow thick bunches of the beautiful blue
crane's-bill, or wild geranium, which ought to be a
garden flower and not left to the chance mercy of
the scythe. There, too, the herb Robert hides, and

Thistledown. 183

its foliage, turning color, lies like crimson lace on
the bank.

Even the tall thistles of the ditch have their beauty
— the flower has a delicate tint, varying with the
species from mauve to purple ; the humble-bee visits
eveiy thistle-bloom in his path, and there must there-
fore be sweetness in it. Then in the autumn issues
forth the floating thistledown, streaming through the
air and rolling like an aerial ball over the tips of the
bennets- Thistledown is sometimes gathered to fill
pillow-cases, and a pillow so filled is exquisitely
soft. There is not a nook or corner of the old
l^lace where something interesting rnay not be found.
Even the slates on a modern addition to the home-
stead are each bordered with yellow lichen — perhaps
because they adjoin thatch, for slates do not seem
generally to encourage the growth of lichen. It
appears to prefer tiles, which therefore sooner as-
sume an antique tint.

To the geraniums in the bow-window the hum-
ming-bird moth comes now and then, hovering over
the scarlet petals. Out of the high elms drops a
huge gray moth, so exactly the color of gra^' lichen
that it might be passed for it — pursued, of course,
as it clumsily falls, hy two or more birds eager for
the spoil. It is feast-time with them when the cock-
chafers come : the}' leave nothing but wing-cases
scattered on the garden paths, like the shields of
slain men-at-arms.

In the bright sunshine, when there is not a cloud
in the sky, slender beetles come forth from the cracks
of the earth and run swiftly across the paths, glitter-
ing green and gold, irridescent colors glistening on

184 Haunt of the Butterfiies.

their backs. These are locall}' called suubeetles,
because the}^ appear when the snn is brightest. Be
careful not to step on or kill one ; for if you do it will
certainly rain, according to the old superstition. The
blackbird, when he picks up one of the larger beetles,
holds it with its back towards him in his bill, so that
the legs claw helplessly at the air, and thus carries it
to a spot where he can pick it to pieces at his leisure.

The ha-ha wall of the orchard is the favorite haunt
of butterflies; they seem to love its sunn^v aspect,
and often cling to the loose stones like ornaments
attached by some cunning artist. Sulphur butter-
flies hover here 'early in the spring, and later on
white and brown and tiny blue butterflies pass this
way, calling en route. Sometimes a great noble of
the butterfly world comes in all the glory of his wide
velvety wings, and deigns to pause awhile that his
beauty may be seen.

Somewhere within doors, in the huge beams or
woodwork, the death-tick is sure to be heard in the
silence of the night : even now the old folk listen with
a hngering dread. Give the woodwork a smart tap,
and the insect stops a few moments, but it rapidly
gets accustomed to such taps, and after a few ceases
to take notice of them. This manner of building
houses with great beams visibly supporting the ceil-
ing, passing across the room underneath it, had one
advantage. On a rainy day the children could go
into the garrets or the cheese-loft and there form a
swing, attaching the ropes to the hooks in the beam
across the ceiling.

The brewhouse, humble though its object may be,
is not without its claim to admiration. It is open

An Old-fashioned Orchard. 185

from the floor to the rafters of the roof, and tliat
roof in its pitch, the craft of the woodwork, the (kill
polish of the old oak, has an interest far surpassing
the dead staring level of flat lath and plaster. Noble
workmanship in wood may be found, too, in some of
the ancient barns ; sometimes the beams are of black
oak, in others of chestnut.

In these modern days men have lost the pleasures
of the orchard ; yet an old-fashioned orchard is the
most delicious of places wherein to idle away the
afternoon of a hazy autumn da}-, when the sun
seems to shine with a soft slumberous warmth with-
out glare, as if the rays came through an aerial
spider's web spun across the sk}-, letting all the
beauty, but not the heat, slip through its invisible
meshes. There is a shadowy coolness in the recesses
under the trees. On the damson trunks are 3-ellowish
cr^'stalline knobs of gum which has exuded from the
bark. Now and then a leaf rustles to the ground,
and at longer intervals an apple falls with a decided
thump. It is silent save for the gentle twittering
of the swallows on the topmost branches — they are
talking of their coming journey — and perhaps oc-
casionally the distant echo of a shot where the lead
has gone whistling among a cove}'. It is a place to
dream in, bringing with 3^ou a chair to sit on — for
it will be freer from insects than the garden seat —
and a book. Put away all thought of time : often in
striving to get the most value from our time it slips
from us as the reality did from the dog that greedily
grasped at the shadow : simply dream of what you
will, with apples and plums, nuts and filberts within
reach.

186 Walnuts direct from the Tree.

Dusky Blenheim oranges, with a gleam of gold
under the rind ; a warmer tint of yellow on the
pippins. Here streaks of red, here a tawny hue.
Yonder a load of great russets ; near by heavy pears
bending the strong branches ; round black damsons ;
luscious egg-plums hanging their yellow ovals over-
head ; bullace, not yet ripe, but presently sweetly
piquant. On the walnut trees bunches of round
green balls — note those that show a dark spot or
streak, and gently tap them with the tip of the tall
slender pole placed there for the purpose. Down
they come glancing from bough to bough, and, strik-
ing the hard turf, the thick green rind splits asunder,
and the walnut itself rebounds upwards. Those who
bu}' walnuts have no idea of the line taste of the fruit
thus gathered direct from the tree, when the kernel,
though so curiousl}^ convoluted, slips its pale yellow
skin easily and is so wondrously white. Surel3- it is
an error to banish the orchard and the fruit garden
from the pleasure-grounds of modern houses, strictly
relegating them to the rear, as if something to be
ashamed of.

Divination by the Hazel Wand. 187

CHAPTER XI.

THE HOME-FIELD HAZEL CORNER THE DIVINING-
ROD rabbits' holes THE CORNCRAKE VEN-
TRILOQUISM OF BIRDS hedge-fruit.

A wicket-gate affords a private entrance from the
orchard into the home-field, opening on the meadow
close to the great hedge, the favorite highway of the
birds. Tracing this hedge awa^' from the homestead,
in somewhat more than two hundred yards it is
joined b}' another hedge crossing the top of the field,
thus fonning a sheltered nook or angle, which has
been alluded to as the haunt of squirrels. Here the
highway hedge is almost all of hazel, though one
large hawthorn tree stands on the ' shore ' of the ditch.
Hazel grows tall, straight, and is not so bushy as some
underwood ; the lesser boughs do not interlace or
make convenient platforms on which to build nests,
and birds do not use it much.

The ancient divination by the hazel wand, or,
rather, the method of searching for subterranean
springs, is not yet forgotten ; some of the old fblk
believe in it still. I have seen it tried myself, half in
joke, half in earnest. A slender rod is cut, and so
trimmed as to have a small fork at one end ; this fork
is placed under the little finger in such a wa}^ that
the rod itself comes over the back of the other fingers :

188 Nutting.

it is then lightly balanced, and vibrates easily. The
magician wallvs slowly over the ground selected,
watching the tip of the wand ; and should it bend
downwards without volition on his part, it is a sign
that water is concealed beneath the spot.

The nuts upon the bushes do not all ripen at the
same time : one or two bushes are first, and offer ripe
nuts before the rest have hardened sufficiently. The
leaves on these also drop earlier, turning a light
yellow. The size and even the shape of the nuts
vary too, some being nearly round and others roughly
resembling the almond. Their flavor when taken
from the bush is sweet, juicy, ' nutty.' When they
will ' slip udd ' is the proper time to gather them —
i.e. when the hood or outer green covering slips off at
a touch, leaving the light-brown nut in the palm : it
is a delicately shaded brown. Cut off just the tip of
the nut — the pointed keystone of its Gothic arch —
with a penknife ; insert the blade ever so slightly, and
a gentle turn splits the shell and shows two onyx-
white hemispheres of kernel.

With a little care the tallest boughs ma}- be pulled -
down uninjured ; if dragged down rudely the bough
will be ' sprung ' where it joins the stole below, and
will then wither and die. The plan is simply to apply
force by degrees, pulling the main bough only so far
forward as to enable the hand to reach an upper
branch, seizing the upper branch, and by its aid
reaching a still higher one, and gradually bending
the central stem till it forms a bow. If done gradu-
ally and the bow not too acute, the tallest bush will
spring up when released without the least injury.
With a crook to seize the bush as high up as possible

Doves. 189

— where it bends more easily — not a twig need be
broken, and nutting may be enjoj'ed without doing
the least damage.

Under a tall ash tree rising out of the hazel bushes,
and near the great hawthorn on the edge or shore of
the ditch, the grass grows rank and is of the deepest
green. The dove that could be heard cooing from
the orchard built her nest in the hawthorn, which,
where it overhangs the grass like a canop}^, is bare
of boughs for six or seven feet up the gnarled stem.
The cattle, who love to shelter under it from the heat
of the sun, browsed on the 3'oung shoots, so that no
branch could form ; but on the side towards the ditch
there are immense spin}' thorns, long enough and
strong enough to make a savage's arrow-head or awl.
The doves do not seem nearly so numerous as the
wood-pigeons (doves, too, in strict language) ; they
are much smaller, rather duller in color — that is, when
flying past — and are rarel,y seen more than two to-
gether. When the summer thunder is booming yon-
der over the hills, and the thin edge of the dark cloud
showers its sweet refreshing rain, with tlie sunshine
gleaming through on the hedge and grass here, be-
tween the rolling echoes the dove may be heard in
the bush coo-cooing still more softh* and lovingly' to
her mate.

Just in the very angle formed by the meeting
hedges the ditch becomes almost a fosse, so broad
and deep ; the sandy banks have slipped, and the
rabbits have excavated more, and over all the bram-
bles have arched thickly with a background of brake-
fern. The flower of the bramble is very beautiful —
a delicate pink bloom, succeeded by green berries,

190 A Greeyi Byeicay.

to ripen red, and later black, nnder the sun. A larger
kind are found here and there — the children call them
dew-berries or jew-berries indifferently. Some of the
bramble leaves linger on a dull green all through the
winter.

In the angle a narrow opening runs through be-
tween the two banks, which do not quite meet : it is
so overgrown with bramble and fern, convolvulus
and thorn, that unless the bushes were parted to look
in no one would suspect the existence of this green
tunnel, which on the other side opens on the ash
copse, where a shallow furrow (dry) joins it. This
tunnel is the favorite way and passage of the rabbits
from the copse out into the tempting pasturage of the
meadow ; through it too, now and then, a fox creeps
quietly. Rabbit-holes drill the bank everywhere, but
one near this green byeway is noticeable because of
its immense size.

It must measure eighteen inches or nearly in di-
ameter at the mouth ; nor does it diminish abruptly,
but continues almost as large a yard or more inside
the bank. Spaniels will get right into such a ' bury,'
till nothing but the tail can be seen, and, if permit-
ted, stay there and dig and scratch frantically. They
would sometimes, perhaps, succeed in reaching the
prey were it not for the roots of thorn-bushes or trees
which cross the holes here and there like bars ; these
they cannot scratch through, but will bite and tear
with their teeth — coming out now and then to breathe
and shake the sand from their muzzles, then back
again with a whine of eager excitement, till presently,
in sheer exhaustion, they lie down at the mouth of
the cave and pant. This is not allowed if it is known ;

Rahhits at Work. 191

but spaniels now and then steal awaj- privately, and
so frequentl}' make for a hole like this that when
their absence is discovered it is the first place visited
in search of them. The mingled jjatience and excite-
ment, the vast labor they will undergo, the quantity
of sand the}' will throw out, the whine — it is not a
bark — expressing intense desii-e, prove how deep is
the hunting instinct in the dog.

Even if the burrows be ferreted, in a few weeks
this great hole shows signs of fresh inhabitants ; and
such a specially enlarged entrance may be found
somewhere in most of the banks frequented by
rabbits. Why do they make an aperture so many
times larger than they can possibly require ? It may
be a kind of ancestral hall, the favorite cave of the
first settlers here, clung to by their descendants.
Within, perhaps three, or even more, tunnels branch
off from it. So busy are the}', and so occupied when
excavating a fresh passage, that sometimes when
waiting quietl}' on a bank you maj' see the miner at
work. The sand pours out as he casts it behind him
with his hinder paws ; his back is turned, so that he
does not notice any one.

Along the banks evidence may be found of attempts
at boring holes, abandoned after a few inches of prog-
ress had been made : sometimes a root, or a stone
perhaps, interferes ; sometimes, and apparently more
often, caprice seems the only cause why the tunnel
was discontinued. The grass in this corner is sweeter
to their taste than elsewhere : their runs are every-
where — crossing and winding about.

In the evening, as the shadows deepen and a hush
falls upon the meads, the}' come out and chase and

192 RahhiU at Play.

romp with each other. When a couple are at play
one will rush ten or a dozen j^arcls awa}' and begin to
nibble as if totally unconscious of the other. The
second meanwhile nibbles too, but all the while
stealthily moves forward, not direct, but sideways,
towards the first, demurelj' feeding. .Suddenly the
second makes a spring ; the first, who has been
watching out of the corners of his eye all the time, is
off like the wind. Or sometimes he will turn and
face the other, and jump clean over, a foot high.
Sometimes both leap up together in the exuberance
of their mirth.

By the trunk of a mighty oak, growing out of the
hedge that runs along the top of the field, the bram-
bles and underwood are thinner, as is generally the
case close under a tree ; and it is easy to push
through just there. On the other side, a huge root
covered with deep green moss aftbrds a pleasant seat,
leaning back against the trunk. Upon the right,
close by, is the ash copse, with its border of thick fir
trees ; on the left, oaks at intervals stand along the
hedge ; in front stretches the undulating surface of an
immense pasture field called The Warren. Like a
prairie it rolls gently awa}^ dotted with hawthorn
bushes, here and there a crab tree, and two rows of
noble elms, in both of which the rooks are busy in
spring. Beyond, the ground rises, and the small
upland meadows are so thickly timbered as to look
like distant glades of a forest ; still farther are the
downs.

Under this great oak in the stillness is a place to
dream — in summer, looking upward into the vast
expanse of green boughs, is an intricate architecture,

Night in Early Spring. 193

an inimitable roof, whose lattice-windows are set with
translucent lapis lazuli, for the deep blue of the sky
seems to come down and rest upon it. The acorns
are already there, as 3'et all cup, and little of the
acorn proper showing ; there is a tiny black speck on
the top, and the young acorn faintly resembles some
of the ancient cups with covers, the black speck being
the knob by which the cover is lifted. After the first
frosts, when the acorns are browned and come out of
their cups from their own weight as they fall and
strike the ground, the lads select the darkest or
ripest, and eat one now and then ; they half- roast
them, too, like chestnuts.

In the early spring, when the night is bright and
clear, it is a place to stand a moment and muse
awhile. For the copse is dark and gloom}^, the
bare oaks are dark behind ; the eye cannot see
across the prairie, whose breadth is doubled b}^ the
night. But yonder lies a great gray sarseu boulder,
like an uncouth beast of ancient days crouching in
the hollow. Hush ! there was a slight rustling in
the grass there, as of a frightened thing ; it was
a startled hare hastening away. The brightest con-
stellations of our latitude pour down their rays and
influence on the birth of bud and leaf in sj^ring ;
and at no other season is the sky so gorgeous with
stars. ^

The grass in the meadow or home-field as it begins
to grow tall in spring is soon visited by the corn-
crakes, who take up their residence there. In this
district (though called the corncrake) these birds
seem to frequent the mowing-grass more than the
arable fields, and they generally arrive about the
13

194 Crakes in the 3Ioiving-grass.

time when it has grown sufficiently high and thick
to hide their motions. This desire of concealment
— to be out of sight — is apparent!}' more strongly-
marked in them than in anj- other bird ; yet they
utter their loud call of ' Crake, crake, crake ! ' not
unlike the turning of a wooden rattle, continuously
though only at a short distance.

It is difficult to tell from what place the cr}- pro-
ceeds : at one moment it sounds almost close at
hand, the next fifty yards off; then, after a brief
silence, a long way to one side or the other. The
attempt to mark the spot is in vain ; you think you
have it, and rush there, but nothing is to be seen,
and a minute afterwards 'Crake, crake' comes be-
hind you. For the first two or three such attempts
the crake seems to move but a little way, dodging to
and fro in a zigzag, so that his call is never very far
oflf ; but if repeated again and again he gets alarmed,
there is a silence, and presentl}' you hear him in a
corner of the mead a hundred 3-ards distant. Per-
haps once, if you steal up very, very quietly, and
suddenl}^ dart forward, or if you have been waiting
till he has come unawares close to you, you may
possibl}^ see the grass move as if something passed
through it ; but in a moment he is gone, without
a glimpse of his body having been seen. His speed
must be \evy great to slip like this from one side of
the field to the other in sofew seconds.

The fact that the call apparently issues from the
grass in one place, and yet upon reaching it the bird
is not to be found, has given rise to the belief that
the crake is a ventriloquist. It may be so ; but
even without special powers of that kind, ventrilo-

Birds Ventriloquids. 195

quial effects would, I think, be produced b}' the
peculiar habits of the bird. When that which
causes a sound is out of sight it must alwaj^s be
difficult to fix upon the exact spot whence the sound
comes. When the sound is made now here, now
3'ondcr, as the bird travels swiftl}" — still out of
sight — it must be still more difficult. The crake
doubtless often cries from a furrow, which would act
something like a trough, tending to draw the sound
along it. P^inally the incessant repetition of the
same note, harsh and loud, confuses the ear.

Some say in like manner that the starling ventril-
oquizes. He has, indeed, one pecuhar long-drawn
hollow whistle which goes echoing round the chim-
ney-pots and to and fro among the gables ; but it
never deceives you as to his position on the roof
unless 3'ou are indoors and cannot see him. It is
the same with the finches in the trees, when the
foliage is thick. Their notes seem to come from
this side among the branches, but on peering care-
fully up there is no bird visible ; then it sounds
higher up, and even in the next tree ; all the while
the finch is but just overhead, and the moment he
moves he is seen. Other birds equally deceive the
ear : the yellow-hammer does sometimes, and the
chattering brook-sparrow ; so will the blackbird when
singing — always provided that they are temporarily
invisible.

When the crake remains a long time in one place,
uttering the call continuously, the illusion disappears,
and there is no more difficulty in approximately fix-
ing its position than that of any other bird. One
summer a crake chose a spot on the ' shore ' of the

196 Crakes.

ditch of the highway hedge, not forty yards from the
orchard ha-ha. There was a thick growth of tall
grass, clogweed, and other plants jnst there, and
some of the bushes pushed out oyer the sward.
The nest was placed close to the ditch (not in it),
and the noise the crakes made was something as-
tonishing. ' Crake, crake, crake ! ' resounded the
moment it was light — and it is hght early at that
season : ' Crake, crake, crake ! ' all the morning ;
the sound now and then, if the bird moved a few
yards nearer, echoing back from some of the build-
ings. There was, or seemed to be, a slight cessation
in the middle of the day, but towards evening it
recommenced, and continued without cessation till
quite dark. This lasted for some weeks : it chanced
that the meadow was mown late, so that the birds
were undisturbed. Why so apparently timid a bird
should choose a spot near a dwelling is not eas}' to
understand.

The crakes, however, when thus localized deceived
no one by their supposed ventriloquial powers ; there-
fore it seems clear that the deception is caused by
their rapid changes of position. The mouse in like
manner often gives an impression that it must be in
one spot when it is really a yard away, the shrill
squeak, as it were, left behind it. It is not easy
sometimes to fix the position of the death-tick in
woodwork. The home-field or meadow here is a
favorite haunt of the crakes, for like all other birds
the}^ have their special places of resort. Another
meadow, at some distance on the same farm, is
equall}^ favored by them. This meadow adjoins
that second line of bird-travel, following a brook

Shooting CorncraJces. 197

previously alluded to. But as the crakes, though
the}' will take refuge in a hedge, do not travel along
it habituall}-, this circumstance ma}'' be accidental.
Crakes, notwiths^tanding they run so swiftly, do not
seem to move far when once they have arrived ; they
appear to restrict themselves to the field they have
chosen, or, at the furthest, make an excursion into<
the next and return again, so that you may always
know where to go to hear one.

The mowers cutting these meadows find the eggs
— the nest being on the ground — and bring them to
the farmstead, both as a curiosity and to be eaten,
some thinking them equal to plovers' eggs. Though
you may follow the sound ' Crake, crake ! ' in the
grass for hours at a time, and sometimes get so near
as to throw your walking-stick at a bunch of grass,
you will never see the bird ; and nothing, neither
stick nor stone, will make it rise. Yet it is easy to
shoot, as I found, in one particular way. The trick
is to drive it into a hedge. Two persons and a spaniel
well in hand walk towards the ' Crake, crake ! ' keep-
ing some distance apart. The bird at first runs
straight away ; then, finding himself still pursued,
tries to dodge back, but finds the line extended. He
then takes refuge in silence, and endeavors to slip
past unseen and unheard ; but the spaniel's power of
scent baffles that. At last he makes for the hedge,
when one person immediately goes on the other side,
and the spaniel beats up it. The bird is now sur-
rounded and cannot escape, and, as the dog comes close
upon him, is compelled to rise and fly. As he rises
his flight at first somewhat resembles the partridge's,
but it is slower and heavier, and he can be shot

198 Birds in the Hay-field.

with the greatest ease. But if not fired at, after
he has got well on the wing the flight becomes much
stronger, and it is evident that he is capable of a
long voyage.

Sometimes, by patience and skilfulty anticipating
his zigzag motions in the grass, the crake may be
driven to the hedge without a dog. He will then,
after a short time, if still hunted, 'quat' in the
thickest bunch of grass or weeds he can find in the
ditch, and will stay till all but stepped on, when he
can be knocked down with a walking-stick. After
the grass is mown, the crakes leave the meadows and
go to the arable fields, where the crops afford them
shelter. This district seems a yery favorite resort of
these birds.

The mowing-grass while standing does not appear
to attract other birds much ; but immediatel}' the
scythe has passed over they flock to the swathes from
the hedges, and come, too, to the hay itself when
quite dry. In haj' there are many plants whose
stems are hollow. Now, as soon as a stalk is dry, if
there be auj^ crevice at all, insects will creep in ; so
that these tiny tubes are frequentl}' full of inliabitants
which probabl}^ attract the birds.

Sometimes a bird will perch for a moment on a
ha^^maker's hat as he walks slowly down a lane with
hedges each side ; the fibres of \\ay have adhered to
it, and the keen eyes above have detected some mov-
ing creature on them. Birds that are otherwise
timid will remain on the footpath to the very last
moment, almost till within reach, if they chance to
be dissecting a choice morsel, some exquisite beetle
or moth — pecking at it in eager liaste and running

Blackthorn and Woodbine. 199

what to them must seem a terrible risk for the sake
of gratifying their taste.

The wood-pigeons are fond of acorns, and come for
them to the oaks growing in an irregular row along
the hedge at the top of the home-field. They are
most voracious birds and literally cram their crops
with this hard fruit. Squirrels and mice enjo}' the
nuts in Hazel Corner, and the thrashes and pigeons
feed on the peggles which cover the great hawthorn
bush there so thickly as to give it a reddish tint.
There is a difference even in this fruit : on some
bushes the peggles consist mainly of the internal
stone, the edible coating being of the thinnest. On
others the stone is embedded in a thick mellow
covering affording twice as much food. Like other
products of the hedge, they are supposed to be im-
proved by frost.

Farther down the highway hedge, by the gateway,
a large elder bush, or rather tree, bears a profusion
of berries. Blue-black sloes adhere to — the}- do not
hang on — the blackthorn bushes : in places the
boughs are loaded with them. Here and there crabs
cling to the tough crab tree, whose bark has a dull
gloss on it, something like dark polished leather.
Bunches of red berries shine on the woodbine : fruit
growing in bunches usually depends, but these are
often on the upper side of the stalk ; and the latter
bloom shows by them — flower and fruit at the same
time. The berry has a viscous feel.

Larger berries — some red, some green, on the
same bunch — cluster on the vines of the br3^ony.
The white br3^ony, whose leaf is not unlike that of
the grape, has a magical reputation, and the cottage

200 Oahgalls.

folk believe its root to be a powerful ingredient in
love potions, and also poisonous. They identif}' it
with the mandrake. If growing in or close to a
ehurch3'ard its virtues are increased, for, though be-
coming fainter as they lengthen, the shadows of the
old superstitions linger still. Red nightshade berries

— not the deadly- niglitshadc, but the 'bitter-sweet'

— hang sullenly among the bushes where this creep-
ing plant has trailed over them. Here and there
upon the bank wild gooseberry and currant bushes
may be found, planted by birds canying off ripe fruit
from the garden. A wild gooseberry may sometimes
be seen growing out of the decayed ' touchwood ' on
the top of a hollow withy-pollard. Wild apple trees,
too, are not uncommon in the hedges.

The beautiful rich color of the horse-chestnut,
when quite ripe and fresh from its prickly green shell,
can hardly be surpassed ; underneath the tree the
grass is strewn with the shells, where they have
fallen and burst. Close to the trunk the grass is
worn away by the restless trampling of horses, who
love the shade its foliage gives in summer. The oak-
apples which appear on the oaks in spring — gen-
erall}' near the trunk — fall off in the summer, and
lie shrivelled on the ground not unlike rotten cork, or
black as if bunied. But the oak-galls show thick on
some of the trees, light green, and round as a ball ;
the}^ will remain on the branches after the leaves
have fallen, turning brown and hard, and hanging
there till the spring comes again.

One of the cottagers in the adjacent hamlet col-
lects these brown balls and strings them upon .wire,
making flower-stands and ornamental baskets for

Teazle. 201

sale. They seem to appear in numbers upon those
oak bushes rather than trees which spring up when
an oak has been cut down but the stump has not been
grubbed up. These shoots at first often bear leaves
of great size, many times larger than the ordinary
oak leaf; some are reall}' immense, measuring
occasionally fourteen or fifteen inches in length. As
the shoots grow into a bush the leaves diminish in
size and become like those of the tree.

In the ditch the tall teazle lifts its prickl}- head.
The large leaves of this plant grow in pairs, one on
each side of the stem, and while the plant is young
are connected in a curious manner b}- a green mem-
brane, or continuation of the lower part of the leaf
round the stem, so as to form a cup. The stalk rises
in the centre of the cup, and of these vessels there
are three or four above each other in stories. AVheu
it rains, the drops, instead of falling oflT as from other
lea-\'es, run down these and are collected in the cups,
which thus form so many natural rain-gauges. If it
is a large plant, the cup nearest the ground — the
biggest" — will hold as much as two or three wine-
glasses. This water remains there for a considerable
time, for several daj's after a shower, and is fatal to
numbers of insects which climb up the stalk or alight
on the leaves and fall in. While the grass and the
earth of the bank are quite dry, therefore, the teazle
often has a supply of water ; and when it dries up,
the drowned insects remain at the bottom like the
dregs of a draught the plant has drained. Round
the prickly dome-shaped head, as the summer advan-
ces, two circles of violet-hued flowers push out from
cells defended b}' the spines, so that, seen protruding

202 Sharp-edged Grasses.

above the hedge, it resembles a tiara — a green ch'cle
at the bottom of the dome, and two circles of gems
above.

Some of the grasses growing by the hedge are not
to be handled carelessly, the edge of the long blade
cutting like a lancet : the awn-like seeds of others,
if tlie}^ should chance to get into the mouth, as
happens occasionally to the haymakers, work down
towards the throat, the attempt to get rid of them
causing a creeping motion the opposite way. This
is owing to the awns all slanting in one direction.

On the sultry afternoons of the latter part of the
summer the hedge is all but silent. Waiting in the
gateway there is no sound for half an hour at a time,
no call or merry song in the branches, nothing but
the buzz of flies. The birds are quiet, or nearly so :
they slip about so noiselessly that it is difficult to
observe them, so that many perhaps migrate before
it is suspected, and others stay on when thought to
be gone. In the grass the grasshoppers make their
hiss, and towards evening the 3'ellow-hammers utter
a few notes ; but while the corn is being reaped the
meadows are all but still.

The Ash Copse. 203

. CHAPTER XII.

THE ASH COPSE THE NIGHTINGALE CLOUD OF STAR-
LINGS HEDGEHOGS HERONS' MEAD MOOR-
HENS AMONG THE REEDS.

A GAP in the hedge by Hazel Corner leads through
a fringe of hawthorn bushes into the ash copse.
There is a gate at a little distance ; but somehow
it is alwa^'s more pleasant to follow the b3eway of
the gap, where two steps, one down into the ditch,
or rather on to the heap of sand thrown out from
a rabbit buiy, and one up on the mound, carry you
from the meadow — out of cultivation — into the
pathless wood. The green sprays momentarily
pushed aside close immediately behind, shutting out
the vision, and with it the thought of civilization.
These boughs are the gates of another world. Un-
der trees and leaves — it is so, too, sometimes even
in an avenue — where the direct rajs of the sun do
not penetrate, there is ever a subdued light ; it is
not shadow, but a light toned with green.

In spring the ground here is hidden by a verdant
growth, out of which presently the anemone lifts its
chaste flower. Then the wild hj-aciuths hang their
blue bells so thickly- that, glancing between the poles,
it is hazy with color ; and in the evening, if the level
beams of the red sun can reach them, here and there

204 The Nightingale' s Morning Song.

a streak of imperial purple pla3-s upon the azure.
Woodbine coils round the tall straight poles, and
wild hops, whose bloom emit a pleasant smell if
crushed in the fingers. On the upper and clearer
branches of the hawthorn the nightingale sings —
more sweetl,y, I think, in the freshness of the spring
morning than at night. Resting quietlj' on an ash-
stole, with the scent of flowers, and the odor of
green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder
lighting up the lichen and the moss on the oak
trunk, a gentle air stirring in the branches above,
giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether,
there comes into the mind a feeling of intense jo}' in
the simple fact of living.

The nightingale shows no timidit}^ while all is still,
but sings on the bough in full sight, hardly three
^■ards awa}', so that you can see the throat swell as
the notes are poured forth — now in intricate trills,
now a low sweet call, then a liquid 'jug-jug-jug!'
To me it sounds richer in the morning — sunlight,
flowers, and the rustle of green leaves seem the
natural accompaniment ; and the distant chorus of
other birds affords a contrast and relief — an orchestra
filling up the pauses and supporting the solo singer.

Passing deeper into the wood, it is well to be a
little careful while stepping across the narrow water-
course that winds between the stoles. Rushes grow
thickly by the side, and the slender stream seems to
ooze rather than run, trickling slowl}' down to the
brook in the meadow. But the earth is treacherous
on its banks — formed of decayed branches, leaves,
and vegetable matter, hidden under a thin covering
of aquatic grasses. Listen ! there is a faint rustling

Ash and Elm. 205

and a slight movement of the grass : it is a snake
gliding away to its hole, with yellow-marked head
lifted above the gronnd over which his dull green
length is trailing. Stepping well over the moist
earth, and reaching the firmer ground, there the this-
tles grow great and tall, many up to the shoulder ;
it is a little more open here, the stoles having been
cut only two years ago, and they draw the this-
tles up.

Sometimes the .young ash, shooting up after being
cut, takes fantastic shapes instead of rising straight.
The branch loses its roundness and flattens out to a
width of three or four inches, curling round at the top
like the conventional scroll ornament. These natural
scrolls are occasionally- himg up in farmhouses as cu-
riosities. The woodmen jocularly say that the branch
grew in the night, and so could not see its way. In
some places (where the poles are full-grown) the
upper branches rub against each other, causing a
■weird creaking in a gale. The trees as the wind
rises find their voices, and the wood is full of strange
tongues. From each green thing touched by its fin-
gers the breeze draws a ditferent note : the bennets
on the hillside go ' sish, sish ; ' the oak in the copse
roars and groans ; in the firs there is a deep sighing ;
the aspen rustles. In winter the bare branches sing
a shrill ' sir-r-r.'

The elm, with its rough leaf, does not grow in the
copse : it is a tree that prefers to stand clear on two
sides at least. Oak and beech are here ; on their
lower branches a few brown leaves will' linger all
through the Avinter. Where a huge bough has been
sawn from a crooked ill-grown oak a yellow bloated

206 Pheasants.

fungus has spread itself, and under it, if 3-ou lift it
with a stick, the wood-lice are crowded in the rotting
stump. The beech boughs seem to gUde about,
round and smooth, snake-like in their easy curves.
The bark of the aspen, and of the large willow poles,
looks as if cut with the point of a knife, the cut hav-
ing widened and healed with a rough scar. On the
trunk of the silver-birch sometimes the outer bark
peels and rolls up of itself. Seen from a distance,
the leaves of this tree twinkle as the breeze bends
the graceful hanging spray.

The pheasants, that wander away from the pre-
serves and covers up under the hills far down in the
meadows as the acorns ripen, roost at night here in
the copse ; and should a storm arise, after every flash
of lightning gleaming over the downs the cocks
among them crow. So, too, in the daytime, after
ever}' distant mutter of thunder the pheasant cocks
crow in the preserves, and some declare they can see
the flash, even though invisible to human e3'es, at
noon-day.

Clustering cones hang from the firs, fringing the
copse on one side — first green, and then a pale buff,
and falling at last hard and brown to strew the earth
beneath. Tn the thick foliage of this belt of firs the
starlings love to roost. If you should be passing
along any road — east, north, west, or south — a
mile or two distant, as the sun is sinking and even-
ing approaching, suddenly there will come a rushing
sound in the air overhead : it is a flock of starlings
flying in their determined manner straight for the
distant copse. From every direction these flocks
converge upon it : some large, some composed only

A Cloud of Starlings. 207

of a dozen birds, but all with the same intent. If
the country chances to be open, the hedges low, and
the spectator on a rise so as to see over some dis-
tance, he may observe several such flights at the
same time. Rooks, in returning to roost fly in long-
streams, starlings in numerous separate divisions.
This is especially noticeable in summer, when the
divisions are composed of fewer birds : in winter the
starlings congregate in larger bodies.

It would appear that after the young birds are
able to fl}^ they flock together in parties by them-
selves, the old birds clubbing together also, but all
meeting at night. The parties of young birds are
easily distinguished by their lighter color. This maj'
not be an invariable rule ( for the birds to range
themselves according to age ) , but it is the case
frequently. Viewed from a spot three or four fields
away, the copse in the evening seems to be overhung
by a long dark cloud like a bar of mist, while the
sky is clear and no dew has yet risen. The resem-
blance to a cloud is so perfect that any one — not
thinking of such things — may for the time be de-
ceived, and wonder why a cloud should descend and
rest over that particular spot. Suddenly, the two
ends of the extended black bar contract, and the
middle swoops down in the shape of an inverted
cone, much resembling a waterspout, and in a few
seconds the cloud pours itself into the trees. An-
other minute, and a black streak shoots upwards,
spreads like smoke, parts in two, and wheels round
back into the firs again.

On ai)proaching it this apparent cloud is found to
consist of thousands of starlings, the noise of whose

208 . The Copse.

calling to each other is indescribable — the country
folk call it a ' charm,' meaning a noise made up of
innumerable lesser sounds, each interfering with the
other. The vastness of these flocks is hardly credi-
ble until seen ; in winter the bare trees on which
they alight become suddenl}' quite black. Once
or twice in the .summer starlings may be observed
hawking to and fro high in the air, as if imitating
the swallows in an awkward manner. Probably
some favorite insect is then on the wing, and they
resort to this unwonted method to capture it.

Beyond the fir trees the copse runs up into a
corner, where hawthorn bushes, briar, and bramble,
succeed to the ash-stoles, and are in turn bordered
\)y some width of furze and brake fern. When this
fern is young and fresh the sunshine glistens on its
gloss}' green fronds, but on coming nearer the sheen
disappears. On a very hot sultry day towards the
end of summer there is occasionally a peculiar snap-
ping sound to be heard in the furze, as if some part
of the plant, perhaps the seed, were bursting. The
shocks of wheat, too, will crackle in the morning
sun. This corner, well sheltered by furze and brake,
is one of ' si}- Reynard's ' favorite haunts. The
stems of the furze, when they grow straight, are
occasionally' cut for walking-sticks. Wood-pigeons
visit the copse frequently — in the spring there are
several nests — and towards evening their hollow
notes are repeated at intervals. Though without the
slightest pretensions to a song, there is something
soothing in their call, pleasantly suggestive of wood-
land glades and deep shady dells.

Just before the shooting season opens there is a

Spaniels and Hedgeliogs. 209

remarkable absence of song from hedge and tree :
even the chirp of the house-sparrow is seldom heard
on the roof, where only recenth' it was loud and
continuous. Most of the sparrows have, in fact, left
the houses in flocks and resorted to the corn-lields
after the grain. In this silent season the robin,
the wood-pigeon, and the greenfinch seem the only
birds whose notes are at all common : the pigeons
call in the evening as the^^ come to the copse, the
greenfinches in a hushed kind of wa^' talk to each
other in the hedge, and the robin plaintively utters
a few notes on the tree. It is not absolute si-
lence indeed ; but the difference is A-ery noticeable.
Through the ash poles on one side of the copse dis-
tant glimpses may be obtained of gleaming water,
where a creek of the shallow lake runs in towards it.

Bordering the furze a thick hawthorn hedge — a
double mound — extends, so wide as to be itself
almost another copse. In the ' rowetty ' grass on
the bank or in the hollow places, under fallen leaA^es
and trailing ivy, the hedgehog hides during the day,
so completel}' concealed that while the sun shines it
is extremely difficult to find one without a dog.

A spaniel racing down the mound will pounce on
the spot and scratch the hedgehog out in a moment ;
then, missing the dog, you presently hear a whining
kind of bark — half rage, half pain — and know im-
mediately what he is doing. He is trying to unroll
the hedgehog, who, so soon as he felt the approach
of the enemy, curled himself into a ball, with the
sharp spines sticking out everywhere. The spaniel,
snapping at the animal, runs these quills deep into
his jowl ; he draws back, snaps again, shakes his
14

210 Young Hedgehogs.

head, and then tries a third time, with blood spots
round his mouth. Ever^y repulse embitters hiui —
his semi-whine expresses intense annoyance, and if
left alone there he would stay till covered with
blood.

But the older dogs sometimes learn the trick :
they then roll the hedgehog over with a paw, touch-
ing it gently, so as not to run the spines in, till the
depression comes uppennost where the hedgehog has
tucked his head inwards. This is the only vulner-
able place, and with one desperate bite the dog
thrusts his teeth in there, seizes the nose, and then
has the hedgehog in his power. The young of the
hedgehog are amusing little things, and try to roll
themselves up in precisely the same manner ; but
they cannot close the aperture where they tuck
their heads in so completely. Though invisible
during the sunshine, hiding so carefully as to be
rarely found, when the dew begins to gather thickly
on the grass and the shades deepen the}' issue forth,
and if you remain quite still show no fear at all.
While waiting in a dry ditch I have often had a
hedgehog come rustling slightly along the bottom
till he reached my boot ; then he would go up the
' shore ' of the ditch out among the grass hunting for
beetles and the creeping things which he likes most.

In some places thej- are numerous ; one or two
other meadows on the farm beside the home-field are
favorite haunts of theirs, and five or six maj' be
found out feeding within a short distance. When
all is still they move rapidly through the grass —
quite a run ; much quicker than they appear capable
of moving. The plough lads, if they find one, carry

The Mead. 211

it to a pond, knowing that nothing but water will
make it unroll voluntarily' — no knocks or kicks ;
but the moment it touches the water it uncoils.
Now and then a laborer will cook a hedgehog and
eat it ; some of them will eat a full-grown rook at
an}' time they chance to shoot it, notwithstanding the
bitter flavor of the bird, onl}- taking out a part of the
back. Those who have had some association with
the gipsies or semi-gipsies seem most addicted to
this kind of food.

In the opposite direction to the ash copse, and
about half a mile north of Wick farmhouse, there
rises above the oak and ash trees what looks like the
topmast and 3'ard of a ship lying at anchor or in dock,
the hull hidden by the branches. It is the top of an
immensely tall and gaunt fir tree, whose thin and
perhaps dying boughs project almost at right angles.
This landmark, visible over the level meadows for
a considerable distance, stands in that little enclosed
meadow which has once before been mentioned
as one of the favorite resorts of birds and wild
animals.

From the ash copse the travelling parties come
down the highway hedge to the orchard : then, cross-
ing the orchard and road, they enter another thick
hedge, which continues in the same general direction ;
and finall}', following it, arrive at this small green
mead walled in by trees and mounds so broad as to
resemble elongated copses. The mead itself ma}''
perhaps be two acres in extent, but it does not appear
so much : the part visible on first glancing over the
gateway can hardl}' exceed an acre. The rest is
formed of nooks — deep indentations, so to say — not

212 Tlie Heron.

more than six or eight yards wide at the entrance,
and running up to a point. Of these tliere ai'e four
or five — recesses in the massive walls of green.

These corners are caused by the mound following
the curiously winding course of a brook which flows
just without on the left side ; and without, on the
right side, runs a second brook, whose direction is
much straighter and current slower. These two meet
at the top of the mead, and then, forming a junction,
make a deep, swift stream, flowing beside a series of
water meadows — broad, level, and open, like a plain
— which are irrigated from it. The mounds in the
angle where the brooks join enclose a large space
planted with osiers, and inside the hedges all round
the mead there is a wide, deep ditch, always full of
slowly moving water : so that the field is really sur-
rounded by a double moat ; and in one corner, iu
addition, there is a pond hidden b}- maple thickets
from within, and intended for the use of cattle in
the adjoining field. The nearest house is several
meadows distant, and no footpath passes near, so
that the spot is peculiarly quiet. These mounds,
hedges, osier-bed, and brooks occupy- an area nearly
or quite equal to the space where cattle can feed.

Upon the fir tree a heron perches frequently in the
da3'time, because from that great elevation he can
command an extensive view and feels secure against
attack. Whenever he visits the water meadows,
sailing thither from the shallow lake (one of whose
creeks approaches the ash copse) , he almost alwa3's
rests here before descending to the field to take a
good look round. The heron is a most suspicious
bird : when he alights in the water meadows here he

A Pond. 213

stalks about in the very middle of the great field, far
out of reach of the gun. If ever he ventures to the
brook, it is not till after a careful surve}' from the fir
tree, his tower of observation ; and, when in the
brook, his long neck is every now and then extended,
that he may gaze above the banks.

By the gateway, reached by crossing a rude bridge
for the wagons, wild hops festoon the thickets. Be-
hind the maple bushes in the corner the water of
the pond, overhung with willow, is dark — almost
black in the depth of shadow. Out of it a narrow
and swift current runs into that slow straight brook
which bounds the right side of the meadow. Here
in the long grass and rushes growing luxuriantly
between the underwood Inrkthe moor-hens, building
their nests on bunches of rushes against the bank
and almost level with the water. Though but barely
hatched, and chips of shell clinging to their backs,
the tiny fledglings swim at once if alarmed. When
a little older they creep about on the miniature ter-
races formed along the banks b}- the constant run-
ning to and fro of water-rats, or stand on a broken
branch bent down by its own weight into the water,
yet still attached to the stem, puffing up their dark
feathers like a black ball.

If all be quiet, the moor-hens come out now and
then into the meadow ; and then, as they stand up-
right out of the water, the peculiar way in which
their tails, white marked, are turned upwards is
visible. The bill is of a fine color — almost the
' orange-tawny ' of the blackbird, set in thick red coral
at its base. Under the shallow water at the
mouth of the pond the marks of their feet on the

214 Moor-hens.

mud ma^y be traced : the^^ run swiftly, and depend
upon that speed and the skilful tricks they practise in
diving — turning back and dodging under water like
a hare in the fields — to escape from pursuit, rather
than on their wings. Through the thick green flags
the}- creep, and into the holes the water-rats have
made, or behind and under the natural cavities in the
stoles upon the bank. They beat the water with
their wings when they rise, showering the spray on
either side, for a short distance, and then, ascending
on an inclined plane, fly heavil}-, but with some
strength.

At night is their time of journeying, when they
come down from the lake or return to it, uttering a
weird cry in the darkened atmosphere. By day, as
they swim to and fro in the flags and through the
duckweed, shaded from the hot sun under willow and
aspen, they call to each other, not unpleasantly, a
note something hke ' croog,' with a twirl of the ' r.'
In summer they do not move far from the place they
have chosen to breed in : in the frosts of winter they
work their way up the brooks, or fly at night, but
usually come back to the old spot. The dabehick, a
slender bird, haunts the pond here too, diving even
more quickly than the moor-hen.

Nut-tree bushes grow along the bank of the brook
on this side — the nuts are a smaller sort than usual ;
and beside the wet ditch within the mound and on
the ' shore,' wherever the scythe has not reached,
the meadow-sweet rears its pale flowers. At even-
ing, if it be sultry, and on some days, especially
before a thunderstorm, the whole mead is full of
the fragrance of this plant, which lines the inside

In the Osier-bed. 215

ditch almost everywhere. So heavy and powerful
is its odor that the still motionless air between the
thick hedges becomes oppressive, and it is a relief
to issue forth into the open fields away from the
perfume and the brooding heat. But by day it is
pleasant to linger in the shadow and inhale its sweet-
ness— if ,you are not nervous of snakes, for there is
one here and there in the grass gliding away at the
jar of the earth under your footstep. Warmth and
moisture favor their increase, as on a larger scale in
tropic lands, and parts of the mead are often under
water when a freshet comes down the brooks so
choked with flags that the}^ cannot carry it away
quickl}'.

The osier-bed in the angle where the brooks join
is on slightl}' higher ground, for although the" withy
likes water at its roots it should not stand in it.
Springing across the ditch, and entering among the
tall slender wands, which, though the^- look so thick
part aside easil}', you may find on the mound behind
the butt of an oak sawn just above the ground ; and
there, in the shade of the reeds, and with a cool breeze
now and again coming along the course of the stream,
it is delicious in the heat of summer to repose and
listen to the murmur of the water.

The moor-hens come down the current slowly,
searching about among the flags ; the reed warblers
are busy in the hedge ; at the mouth of his hole sits
a water-rat rubbing his face between his paws ;
across the stream comes his mate, swimming slowly
with one end of a long green sedge in her mouth,
and the rest towed behind on the surface. They
are the beavers of our streams — amusing, intelli-

216 Meeting of Two Brooks.

gent little creatures, utterly different in habits from
the rat of the drain. Move but a hand, and in-
stantly they fall rather than dive into the water,
making a sound like ' thock ' as the}' strike it ; and
then they run along the bottom, or seem to do so,
as swiftly as on dry land. But in a few minutes out
the}' come again, being at the same time extremely
timid and as quickly reassured ; so that if you remain
perfectly still they will approach within a 3'ard.

Where the two brooks meet a hollow willow tree
hangs over the brown pool — brown with suspended
sand and dead leaves slowlj^ rotating under the sur-
face where the swirl of the meeting currents, one
swift and shallow, the other deeper and stronger, has
scooped out a basin. A wa\'iug line upon the surface
marks' where the two streams shoulder each other and
strive for mastery, and its curve, yielding now to this
side now to that, responds to their varying volume
and weight. AVhile the under-currents sweep ever
slowly round, whirling leaf and dead black soddened
twigs over the hollow, the upper streams are forced
together unwillingly by the narrowing shores, and
throw themselves with a bubbling rush onwards.
Through the brown water, from under the stooping
willow whose age bows it feebly, there shine now and
again silvery streaks deep down as the roach play to
and fro. There, too, come the perch ; they are waiting
for the insects faUing off the willows and the bushes,
and for the food brought down by the streams.

' Hush ! ' it is the rustle of the reeds, their heads
are swaying — a reddish brown now, later on in the
year a delicate feathery white. Seen from beneath,
their slender tips, as they gracefullj' sweep to and

A Bittern. 217

fro, seem to trace designs upon the blue dome
of the sk}'. A -whispering in the reeds and tall
grasses ; a faint murmuring of the waters ; 3'onder,
across the broad water-meadow, a ^^ellow haze hid-
ing the elms.

In the nooks and corners on the left side of the
mead the hemlock rears its sickl^'-looking stem ; the
mound is broad and high, and thiclvly covered with
grasses, for the most part dead and dry. These form
a warm cover for the fox : there is usuall}' one hiding
somewhere here, the mead being so quiet. Where
the ground is often flooded watercress has spread
out into the grass, growing so profusely that now
the water is low it might be mown "by the scA'the,
And everywhere in their season, the beautiful forget-
me-nots nestle on the shores among the flags, where
the water, running slower at the edge, Hngers to kiss
their feet.

Once, some five-and-twenty years ago, a sports-
man startled a great bird out of the spot where the
streams join, and shot it, thinking it was a heron.
But seeing that it was no common heron, he had it
examined, and it was found to be a bittern, and as
such was carefully preserved. It was the last visit
of bitterns to the place ; even then they were so rare
as not to be recognized : now the progress of agri-
culture has entii-ely banished them.

218 Pasture.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE WARKEN RABBIT-BURROWS FERRETS THE

QUARRY THE FOREST SQUIRRELS DEER

DYIKG RABBIT — A HAWK.

Under the trunks of the great trees the hedges are
usuall}^ thinner, and need repairing frequentl}^ ; and
so it happens that at the top of the home-lield, besides
the gap leading into the ash copse, there is another
some distance away beneath a might}^ oak. By
climbing up the mound, and pushing through the
brake fern which grows thickl}^ between the bushes,
entrance is speedil}' 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 corre-
sponding rise yonder suggests another valley. The

An Old Warren. 219

two rows of tall elms — some hundreds of yards
apart — the scattered hawthorn bushes and solitary
trees, groups of cattle in the sliade, and sheep graz-
ing by the far-away hedge, give the aspect of a
wilder park, the more pleasant because of its wild-
ness.

Near about the centre, where the land is most level,
an unexpected slope goes down into a cuplike de-
pression. 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 over head.
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 irresolutel}- rolling over the edge,
now this way now that : some rise and float across,
some follow the surface and cling awhile to the ben-
nets 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 sight of an immense rab-
bit-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

220 Badgers.

now (after waiting awhile, and forgetting that the
adjacent hollow might hide the eneni}-) a dozen or
more have come forth within easy gunshot. Though
a few like this are alwa^'s looking in and out all
through the da}-, it is not till the approach of evening
that they come out in any number.

This is a favorite 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 hve
ten seconds after the lead strikes him, he will gen-
erall}' 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 steahng out, seeming to travel close to
the earth : it is a badger. There are almost always
a couple somewhere about the warren. Their resi-
dence 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 3'ou have to thread your way in and out
a labju'inth of holes, the earth about some of them
perceptibl}' yielding to 3'our weight. There must be
wagon-loads of the sand that has been thrown out.
Beyond this central populous quarter suburbs of
burrows extend in several direotions, and there are
detached settlements fiftj' and a hundred yards away.

The Ferret. 221

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 tun-
nels ; 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\)ne bury
to another. In time thirst will driA-e him to wander ;
there is no water near this dry, sandj', and rather
elevated spot, and blood causes great thirst. Then
he will roam across the open, and b^'-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 unexpectedl}' 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 au
old bury, so that the sand he dug fell down behind
him into the larger hole.

222 Dangerous Rabbit Holes.

The same thing may be seen in banks, though then
the lioles worked from within are not so much con-
cealed by grass. These holes are always ver^' 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 bod}', in order to
get the stuff out behind him. He can really creep
through a much smaller aperture. At night espe-
cially, 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 thej' cling to the spott
They may be decimated hj 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 througli
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,

A Disused Quarry. 223

too, in the gins, and a,ltogether would do bettex* to
sta}' in the hedgerows.

The grass of this great pasture has a different ap-
pearance to that in the meadows which are mown
for hay. It is closer and less uniformly green, be-
cause of the innumerable dead fibres. There are
places which look almost white from the bennets
Avhich the cattle leave standing to die after the seeds
have fallen, and shrink as their sap dries up. Some-
what earher 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 color. Under
the elms 3'onder a much larger variet}' 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 : be-
neath 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 laj'er they reached the level of the water in the

224 Sure-footed Sheep.

lake, which came in on them, slowly forming
pools.

These are now bordered by aquatic grasses, and
from their depths ever}^ 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
atford 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 the}' must have rivalled the
goats. The lambs play about in dangerous-looking
places without injury : the onl}' 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 e^'e 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

Entering the Forest. 225

distant downs leads to the forest. It would be quite
possible to pass by the edge without knowing that
it was so neai", for a few scattered trees on the hill-
side would hardlj' attract attention. Nothing marks
where the trees cease : thin, wide apart, and irregu-
larly lilaced, because planted by nature, they look
but a group on the down. There is indeed a bound-
ary, but it is at a distance and concealed : it is the
trout stream in the hollow far below, winding along
the narrow valle}', 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 wir^^ 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 d}ing 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 color,
Avhile 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 faiutl}' 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 the}' have to bear the
brunt and break the force of the western gales sweep-
ing over the hills.

15

226 Forest Paths.

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 labori-
ous : 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. AVhither 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-pole§.

Other narrow paths — if they can be called paths
which show no trace of human usage — branch off
from the original one, till b^'-and-by it becomes
impossible to recognize 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
man}' yards on either side. Under a huge oak at
last there is an open space, circular, and correspond-
ing 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 en-
closes 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,

A Dead Oak. 227

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 de-
serted, save by occasional passing visitors. Sud-
denly the bracken ceases, and the paths disappear
under a thick grove of beeches, whose dead leaves
and beech-mast 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
gray trunk, split and riven and hollow, with a single
pointed branch rising high above it, dead, too, and
gray : 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 tall 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
oflT by the trees and underwood, it becomes quite
summer-like, and the leaves turn to their most bril-
liant hues. The stems of the bracken are 3-ellow ;
the fronds vary from pale green and gold, comniin-

228 Birds of the Forest.

glecl, to a reddish bronze. The hawthorn leaves are
hght 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 be-
come 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 indi-
cate that the forest around is instinct wdth 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 perfectlj^
still, and consequently invisible, when the}' 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 jaj's are
there. A missel-thrush comes and perches on a
branch right overhead, uttering his harsh note, some-
thing like turning a small rattle. But he stays a
moment only : he is one of the most suspicious of
birds, and has instantl}' observed that there is some
one near. A magpie crosses the mead and disap-
pears.

Something moving yonder in the grass catches the

Squirrels on the Ground. 229

eye ; it is a reddish bushy tail, apparently without a
body, yet held nearl}' upright, and moving hither and
thither in a quick, nervous way. Suddenl3^ down it
goes, and the squirrel raises himself on his haunches
to listen to some suspicious sound, holding his fore
feet something- like a kangaroo. Then he recom-
mences 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 fonn an arch. After
working along ten or fifteen 3'ards 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 con-
nected 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 re-
sounds 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

230 Weasels.

sound to which the deer are so accustomed that they
take no notice. There is httle underwood here be-
neath the beeches, but the beech-mast hes thick, and
there are dead branches, which if stepped on will
crack loudly.

A weasel rushes past almost undei- 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, 3'ou may be almost certain of see-
ing one at least ; in a morning's walk in summer
I have often seen two or three weasels in this way.
The 3^oung 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 peacefulh' ; he is now
scarce fifty yards awa^^, 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,
tliough of course in vain ; the mead is left behind,

Lost. 231

and once more there is a wall of fern on eitlier 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 fort}' are grazing ; and j'onder,
farther away bj' themselves, there must be nearly
a hundred fawns. Standing behind a tree, it is a
pleasant sight to watch them ; but after awhile 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 tawn}' 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

232 A WeaseVs Victim.

fashion of the old time, cai'ries a bell. She comes
and butts one playfully, and insists on her poll being
rubbed. Then there is more grunting, but of a dif-
ferent kind — this time easily recognized : it is a herd
of swine searching for the beech-mast 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 shght trace of
blood — it is the work of a weasel, who fled on hear-
ing 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
heav}^ 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 com-
ing 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.

A City of Rooks. 233

CHAPTER XIV.

THE ROOKERY BUILDING NESTS YOUNG BIRDS

ROOK-SHOOTING STEALING ROOKS ANTICS IN THE

AIR — MODE OF FLIGHT WHITE ROOKS.

The cit}^ built by the rooks in the ehns 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 j-ards of
sward. But the inhabitants appear to be all more or
less related, for the}^ travel amicably in the same
flock and pa}' the usual visit to the trees at the same
hour. Some scattered elms form a line of commu-
nication 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 thi'ee or four, in close neighborhood. 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 frequentl}^ dug
their intrenchmeuts 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 oirtlying settle-

234 Foundations of the Rook's Nest.

nients. The latter are not large or thick : they are
clearl}' 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 the}' are some time
before they finally decide on a site, abandoning one
place after another. But the nests forming the prin-
cipal streets are piled up to a considerable height —
fresh twigs being added e\evy 3'ear — 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 sufflcientlj^ 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 aiford room for it to increase in size
annuall3^ For this reason, perhaps, nests are gen-
erally placed near the top or outer sides of the tree,
where the boughs are smaller, and every upward ex-
tension reaches a clearer place. Fourthly, the bough
ought not "to be too stitf and firm ; it should yield a
little, and sway easily, though onl}- 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.
Fifthl}^, 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 en-
tire structure. Finall}', rooks hke an adjacent bough
on which the bird not actually engaged in incubation
can perch and ' caw ' to his mate, and which is also

Books prefer Ehn Trees. 235

useful to alight on when bringing food for the
joung.

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 in-
genuity exercised in the selection of the bough and
in the placing of the twigs is certainly very remark-
able. When the wind blows furiously you may see
the nest moving gently, riding on the swajdng boughs,
while one of the birds perches on a branch close by,
and goes np and clown like a boat on the waves.
Except b}' 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 weiglit. 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 favorite trees for building in. Oak
and ash are also used, but where there are sufficient
elms they seem generally preferred. The&e 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 neighborhood.
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 — per-
haps ever since the owner can remember — rooks will

236 A Tree Deserted.

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 presentl}' 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 the}^ 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 an}'^ one 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 sit-
ting-bird, and often that of the other who perches
temporarily on the edge. As the branches die they
become stiif, and will not bend to the gale : this im-
mobility is also dangerous to the nest. So long as
the bough 3ields and swa3's 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 accord-
ingly blown away.

The nests which contain young are easily distiu-

Rook- shooting. 237

guishecl, despite the height, b}' the ahnost continuous
ciy for food. The labor 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
cr}- proceeds the condition of the rookery is ascer-
tained, and the amount of sport it will afford reck-
oned with some certaint}'. By noting the nests from
which the cry ai-ose 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.

AVhen 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, notwith-
standing the evident number of nests ; the shooting
has been held a daj- or so too late. The young birds
get the use of their wings very quicklj*, 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 endeavor 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 \Qvy 3'oung birds ; but when the young
ones are capable of something like extended flight,
and can cross a field without much difflcult}', I think
the parents do attempt to lead them away. When
the shooting is in progress, if you will go a little

238 Courage of Old Rooks.

distance from the rookery, out of the excitement of
the sport, \o\x may sometimes see two old rooks, one
on each side of a young one, cawing to it with all
their might. The j'oung bird is, perhaps, on the
ground, or on a low hedge, and the old birds are
evidentl}' endeavoring 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 al-
most invariably follow.

If 3'ou 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 the^- 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 off'spring,
who have hardly yet learned their own language.

To appreciate this eff'ort 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 won-
derful eff'ort of moral courage, for of all birds rooks
seem most afraid of a gun ; and naturally so, hav-
ing 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
majorit}', and so leave the trees before the date fixed
for shooting arrived, or acquire a power of flight

Different Flight of Young Birds. 289

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 b}' the shot they
do not then at once endeavor 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 awhile 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 biixl, 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 alwa3's enters a
tree carefully, as if he did not like to ruflfle his feath-
ers, and knew precisely what sort of bough he pre-
ferred 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

240 RooJcs infested ivith Vermin.

observed, old birds will linger with young ones at a
little distance, and may then be mistaken — as also
on the following da}^, w^hen 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 3'ou 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 convulsivel}', seeming to
hang b}^ the crook of the claw or by muscular con-
traction even when perfectl}' dead, till lifted up by a
shot fired directly underneath, or till the bough itself
is skilfuU}^ cut off by a cartridge and both come down
together. The 3'oung 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
forc»e behind them.

On dropping a rook, probabl}' 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 he, 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 3'our hand,
and cause an unpleasant irritation, though it is only
temporary ; for the insects cannot exist long away
fi'om the bird.

The young birds are occasionall}' stolen from

Rook-poachers. 241

the nests, notwithstanding the difficnlty of access.
Young laborers will climb the trees, though so large
that they can scarcely grasp the trunt, 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 emplo3'ed for the purpose.
As elm trees are so conspicuous, these thieving prac-
tices 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 tremen-
dous noise and so attract attention, they carry a
lantern with them, the light from which silences
tlie birds. vSo long as the}' 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 laboring man with a gun is be-
cause 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
16

242 Young Rooks.

after they can fly well and follow their parents. It
is eas}' to know when there are 3'oung rooks in a
flock feeding in a field. At the first glance the rooks
look scattered abont, without any order, each inde-
pendent 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 — apparentl}' as big and
as black as themselves — which they feed now and
then. The 3'onng bird, bj^ 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-shoot-
ing 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
ma}' be on the point of departing, the}' 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 the}' are put into another
terrible fright — on the first of September. Guns are
going otf 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 gloss}' 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

Meadow Rooks. 243

feathers were polished like a mirror. In feeding
the}' work in a grave, steady wa}' — a contrast to
tlie restless starlings who so often aecompan}' them.
The}' 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.
80 far are they from setting a watch, that if 3'ou
pass up outside the hedge to the leeward, on an}'
side except where the wind would carry the noise of
footsteps to them it is easy to get close — some-
times, if they are feeding near the hedge, within
three or four yai'ds. 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 distin-
guish 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

244 Rooks like Insect Food.

3'ou approach, they are off directl_y. If you carry a
walking-stick onl}^ you ma}^ 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 I'ook, 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 crea-
tures, birds or animals, like any thing pointed at
them : j^ou 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. The}'^ may often be seen fl}ing
canying 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 nearl}' half an acre — in
search of a faA'orite beetle. The grass is pulled up
in httle 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 onl}' in one here and there, where they
find the food the}^ prefer. These tracts are very
numerous, and do the grass some damage. Besides
following the furrows made bj' the plough, and de-
stroying grubs, beetles, wii'eworm, and other pests in
incalculable numbers, they seem to find a quantity
of insect food in unripe corn ; for they often fre-
quent wheat-fields onl}- just turning yellow, and
where the grain is not yet developed. Except per-

Rooks Diving. 245

haps where they are ver}' numerous, they do much
more good than harm.

Rooks may now and then be seen in the autumn,
on the hayricks ; the}' 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
strav/ for the stra}^ grains left in the ear by the
threshing-machine. This seems doubtful. It ap-
pears 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
heck 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 flue 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

246 A Rook inaklng Leeway.

dashed to pieces against a tree or tlie eartli ; 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 di\'ing
utter a gurgling sound like the usual eawk 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 fouud that the real course
is somewhat sidewa3's. 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 gi-eat
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 con-

Flying agaiyist a Gale. 247

tending wind balancing each other, and holding him
suspended. Then he rises again, bnt still finding the
current too strong, tacks like a ship to port or star-
board, 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
struggUng 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
detour.

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, occasionall}- 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 fleld. So a dozen or
more become separated from the crowd, and pres-
ently, 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 meet-
ing their friends, or at most to wait about near the
nesting-trees till the rest come.

248 A Rook with White Feathers.

It must not, therefore, be supposed that ever}^ one
flying alone is a crow. Crows are scarce in compari-
son with rooks. In severe weather a rook will some-
times venture into the courtvard 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 any thing 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 ex-
tremely annoying to have them wantonly killed.

Rooks retvrning to roost. 249

CHAPTER XV.

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 JACK-
DAWS.

As evening approaches, and the rooks begin to wing
their waj' homewards, sometimes a great number of
them will alight upon the steep ascent close under
the entrenchment on the downs which has been de-
scribed, 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-wa}' home
from the arable fields. Sometimes they wheel and
circle in fantastic flight over the veiy brow of the
down, just above the rampart ; occasionally, in the
raw cold days of winter, the}' perch moping in dis-
consolate 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 on-
wards to the wood below. The}- stretch from here to

250 Flying Home.

the roosting-trees, fully a mile and a half — literally
as the crow flies ; and backwards in the opposite direc-
tion the line reaches as far as the ej'e 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 j^ards, 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 la3'ers one above the other, the greater number
pass b}' 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 ele-
vation— 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 outlj'ing 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 flymg visit
to the trees in the evening, calling e?i route to see that
all is well and to assert possession.

The rustling sound of these thousands upon thou-
sands of wings beating the air with slow steady
stroke can hardly be compared to any thing else in its
weird oppressiveness, so to say : it is a little like fall-
ing 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

Position of Wings in Flying. 251

feathers gone, so that you can see dayhght 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 be-
tween these and the torn sails of some of the old
windmills which have become dark in color from long
exposure to the weather, and have been rent hy the
storms of years. Rooks can fl}' with gaps of aston-
ishing size in their wings, and do not seem much
incommoded by the loss — caused, doubtless, b}' 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 ; the}' beat them
out occasionally against the small boughs, and some-
times in fighting. If seen from behind, the wings
of the rook, as he spreads them and glides, slowly
descending, preparator}' 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, easj^ flight, their trumpeters and bugle-
men, the jackdaws — two or three to every compan^^
— 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,

252 A Hundred Republics.

solemn companions move slowl}' onwards, rarely
deigning to ' caw ' him a reply. But awaj' 3'onder at
the wood, above the great beech trees, where so vast
a congregation is gathered together, there is a
mighty uproar and (!ommotion : a seething and bub-
bling 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 na-
tions, all with perfect liberty of tongue holding forth
unsparingl3', and in a language which consists of two
or three syllables indefinitely repeated. The din is
wonderful — each repubhc 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

Rook Arynies. 253

numerous, as lengthy, and as regular in its route as
the iirst.

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 stead-
ily eastward over the downs ; as regularly the other
flies steadil}' northwards over the vale and meadows.
Doubtless in difterent country districts their habits
in this respect vary ; but here it is alwa^'s east and
always north. If an}' leave the wood for the south
or the west, as probably the}' 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 favorite field, till, by degrees,
spreading out like a fan, the army melts awa3^ 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, the}' 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,

254 Force of Hahit.

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. The}' 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 farm-
stead— 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 ej'e
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 favored.

The tenacity with which rooks cling to localities is
often illustrated near great cities, where buildings
have gradually closed in around their favorite haunts.
Yet on the small waste spots covei'ed with cinders
and dustheaps, barren and unlovel}^, 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 hy birds of the spots they

Traditions (Did Ancient History. 255

frequent ; for I ha\'e seen man}' cases in which all of
these were evidentl}' quite put on one side. Biixls
to ordinar}' observation seem so unfettered, to live
so entirely without rhyme or reason, that it is diffi-
cult 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 ? Wh}' 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 capi'ice ? 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 locahty, to the east
and to the north. Something may perhaps be learnt
by examining the routes along which the}' fl}'.

The second division — that which goes northwards,
after flying little more than a mile in a straight line
— passes over Wick Farm, and dispers s 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.

256 The Laho7'er^s Thyiekeeper. ,

as the arm}' 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 habita-
tions 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 laboring people used, they saj', to
note the passage overhead of the rooks in the morn-
ing 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 bej'ond 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 reall,y 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 manj^ trees as
there used to be. Numerous hedges have been
grubbed to make the fields larger.

' Throws ' of Timber. 257

Within the last thirty 3'ears 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 the}^ 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 dock3'ards 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 any thing 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 succes-
siveh' 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 3'oung tree could struggle up it could ;
if not, it perished. At the last two ' throws,'
especially, young trees w^hich ought to have been
saved were ruthlessly cut down. Yet even now the
place is well timbered ; so that it is eas}" to form
some idea of the forest-like appearance it must have
presented a hundred years ago, when row^s of giant
oaks led up to that farmhouse door.

Then there are archaeological reasons, which it
would be out of place to mention, wh}' in very
17

258 Destruction of Rookeries.

ancient days a forest, in all probabilit}', stood here-
abouts. It seems reasonable to suppose that in one
way or another the regular flight of the second arm}'
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 dowais ; 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 rea% 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 the}- 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, 3'et there ma}^ 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 countr3^ On either

Early Clearings. 259

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 ma}'
be seen far more rookeries than in any other direction.
Hardly a farmhouse l^ing 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 vcr}' early
days. The clearing awa}' of trees and underwood,
by opening the ground and rendering it accessible,
must be very attractive to birds, and rooks are par-
ticularly fond of following the plough. Now al-
though 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 Taa.y perhaps ac-
count 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 dis-

260 Jackdaws.

trict, in tlie line of the eastward flight, 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 sum-
mer ( 1878 ) T 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 to-
gether 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 literal!}' black.

It was about three-quarters of a mile from their
nesting-trees, but nesting bad 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 notice-
able that ihaj chose the same part of the field even-
ing after evening ) , and came ci"awling 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 b}^ their smaller
size and the quicker beats of their wings, even when

Black Robbers. 261

not uttering their well-known cry. Jackdaws Vvill
visit the hencoops if not close to the house, and help
themselves to the food meant for the fowls. Poultr}-
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
talies a peck, but before he has hardl}' 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 fl•eel3^ 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 ver^' 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
doinof his best to rob.

262 Nightingales.

CHAPTER XVI.

NOTES ON BIRDS NIGHTINGALES CHAFFINCHES

MIGRATION PACKING INTERMARRIAGE PEEWITS

CROWS CUCKOOS GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN.

The nightingale is one of the birds whose habit of
returning every year to the same spot can hardly be
overlooked by any one. Hawthorn and hazel m'e
supposed to attract them : I doubt it strongl3^ If
there is a hawthorn bush near their favorite nesting-
place they will frequent it by choice, but of itself it
will not bring niglitingales. They seem to fix upon
localities in the most capricious manner. In this par-
ticular district they are moderately plentiful ; yet in
the whole of a large parish (some five miles across)
they are only found in one place. The wood which
is the roosting-place of all the rooks, large as it is,
has but one haunt of the nightingale. Just in one
special spot they ma}^ be heard, and nowhere else.
But having selected a locality, they come back to it
as regularly as the swallows.

In another county in the same latitude there is a
small copse of birch which borders a much-frequented
road. Here the stream of vehicles and passengers
is nearly continuous ; and the birch copse abounds
with nightingales in the spring. On one fine morn-
ing I counted eight birds singing at once. The young

Chaffinches. 263

birds seemed afterwards as numerous as the sparrows.
Never, in the wildest district I have ever visited,
have I ever seen so man}'. They had become so accus-
tomed to passers-b}' that they took no notice unless
purposely disturbed. Several times I stood under an
oak bough that projected across the sward by the
roadside, with a nightingale perched on it overhead,
straining his throat. The bough was some twelve
feet high, and in full view of every one. This road
was constructed about a hundred years ago ; and it
would be interesting to learn if a country lane pre-
ceded it, well sheltered on both sides by thick hedges.
Birds are fond of such places, and having once formed
the habit of coming there, would continue to do
so after the highwa}' was laid down.

It has been stated that the flocks of chaffinches
which may be seen in winter consist entirely of
females. Male chaffinches are rarely seen : they
have migrated, or in some other manner disappeared.
Yet so soon as the spring comes on the males make
their presence known by calling their defiant notes
from every elm along the road. Last spring (1878)
I fell into conversation with a fowler. He had a
cock chafliuch in a cage covered with a black cloth,
except on one side. The cage was placed on the
sward beside the road, and near it a stufl"ed cock
bird stood on the grass. Two pieces of whalebone
smeared with bird-lime formed a pointed arch over
the stuffed chaffinch. The live decoy bird in the cage
from time to time uttered a few notes, which were
immediately answered by a wild bird in the elms
overhead. These notes are a challenge ; and the
bird in the tree supposes them to proceed from the

264 WrynecTcs.

stuffed bird in the grass, and descends to fight him,
when, as the deceived bird alights, his wings or feet
come in contact with the whalebone — sometimes he
perches on it — and the lime holds him fast.

At that season (March) tlie cock birds have an
irresistible inclination to do battle ; they are cease-
lessly challenging each other, and the fowler takes
advantage of it to snare them. Now this man said
that these chaffinches sold for 6s. the dozen, and that
when the birds were ' on,' as he called it, he could
catch five dozen a day. In a walk of four or five
miles I passed half-a-dozen such fellows, with cages
and stuffed chaffinches. This alone proves that cock
chaffinches are very numerous in spring. Where,
then, are they in winter, if the flocks of chaffinches at
that period consist almost exclusively of female birds ?
Probably the}' fly in small bodies of three or four, or
singly, and so escape observation. But this division
of the sexes presents a curious resemblance to the
social customs discovered amongst certain savages.
During the winter the birds separate, and the females
' pack.' In the spring the males appear, and, after a
period of fighting for the mastery, pair, and the nests
are built. After the young are reared, song ceases,
and the old haunts are deserted. This summer I was
much struck with this partial migration, perhaps the
more so because observed in a fresh locality.

During the spring and summer I dail}" followed a
road for some three miles, which I had found to pass
through a district much frequented hy birds. The
birch coppice so favored by nightingales was that
waj^ ; and, by-the-bj^ the wrynecks were almost
equally numerous ; and the question has occurred to

Migi'ation. 265

me whether these birds are companions, in a sense,
of the nightingale, having noticed them in other
places to be much together. All spring and summer
the hedges, coppices, brakes, thickets, furze lands,
and cornfields, abounded with bird life. About the
middle of August there was a notable decrease.
Early in September the places previously so populous
seemed almost deserted ; by the middle of the month
quite deserted.

There were no chaffinches in the elms or in the
road, and scarcely a sparrow ; not a yellow-hammer
on the hedge by the cornfield ; only a ver}^ few green-
finches ; not a single bullfinch or goldfinch. Black-
birds, thrushes, and robins alone remained. The way
to find what birds are about is to watch one of their
favorite drinking and bathing places ; then it is easy
to see which are absent. Where had all these birds
gone to? In the middle of the field of stubble there
were flocks of sparrows — almost innumerable spar-
rows — and some finches, but not, apparently, enough
to account for all that had left the hedges and trees.
That ma}' be explained by their being scattered over
so many broad acres — miles of arable land being
open to them.

But the migration from the hedgerows was very
marked. They became quite empty and silent about
the middle of September. This state of things con-
tinued for httle more than a week — meaning the
absolute silence — then a bird or two appeared in
places at long intervals. They now came back
rapidly, till, on the 28th, the ' fink, chink ' of the
finches sounded almost as merrily as before. The
greenfinches flew from tree to tree in parties of four,

266 Influence of Harvest-time.

six, or more, calling to each other in their happy
confidential way. On that clay the trees and hedges
seemed to become quite populous again with finches.
The sparrows, too, were busy in the roads once
more. For a week previously every now and then
a single lark might be heard singing for a few min-
utes : they had been silent before. On the 28th
half-a-dozen could be heard singing at once, and
now and then a couple might be seen chasing each-
other as if full of gaiety. It was indeed almost like
a second spring : at the same time a few buttercups
bloomed, to add to the illusion.

This migration of the finches from the hedgerows
out into the fields, and their coming back, is very
striking. It may possibly be connected with the
phenomenon of ' packing ; ' for they seem to go away
b}' twos and threes, to disappear graduall}^ but to
return almost all at once, and in parties or flocks.
The number in the flocks varies a great deal : it is
a common opinion that it depends on the weather,
and that in hard winters, when the cold is severe
and prolonged, the flocks are much larger. Wood-
pigeons are seldom, it is said, seen in gi-eat flocks
till the winter is advanced.

Has the date of the harvest an}' influence upon the
migration of birds? The harvest in some counties
is, of course, much earUer than in others — ^a fact of
which the itinerant laborer takes advantage, follow-
ing the wave of ripening grass and corn. By the
time they have mown the grass or reaped the wheat,
as the case may be, in one county, the crops are ripe
in another, to which they then wend their way.

One of the very earliest counties, perhaps, is

Redwings. 267

Surrey. The white bloom of the blackthorn seems
to show there a full fortnight earlier than it does
on the same line of latitude not man}- miles farther
west. The almond trees exhibit their lovely pink
blossom ; the pears bloom, and presently' the haw-
thorn comes out into full leaf, when a degree of
longitude to the west the hedges are bare and only
just showing a bud. Various causes probably con-
tribute to this — difference of elevation, diflerence
of soil, and so forth. Now the spring visitors — as
the cuckoo, the swallow, and wryneck — appear in
Surre}- considerably sooner than they do farther west.
The cuckoo is sometimes a full week earlier. It
would seem natural to suppose that the more forward
state of vegetation in that county has something to
do with the earlier appearance of the bird. But I
should hesitate to attribute it entirely to that cause,
for it sometimes happens that birds act in direct
opposition to what we should consider the most
eligible course.

For instance, the redwing is one of our most prom-
inent winter visitors. Flocks of redwings and field-
fares are commonly seen during the end of the season.
They come as winter approaches, they leave as it be-
gins to grow warm. In every sense the}' are birds
of passage : any ploughboy will tell 3'ou so. (By-
the-by, the ploughboy s call the fieldfares ' velts.' Is
not 'velt' a Northern word for field?) But one
spring — it was rapidly verging on summer — I was
struck daj' after day by hearing a loud, sweet but
unfamiliar note in a certain field. Fancying that
most bird notes were known to me, this new song
naturally arrested m}' attention. In a little while

268 Migration of Corncrakes.

I succeeded in tracing it to an oak tree. I got
under the oak tree, and there on a bough was a
redwing singing with all his might. It should be
remarked that neither redwing nor fieldfare sings
during the winter; they of course have their 'call'
and cry of alarm, but by no stretch of courtesy could
it be called a song. But this redwing was singing
— sweet and ver}' loud, far louder than the old fa-
miliar notes of the thrush. The note rang out clear
and high, and somehow sounded strangely' unfamiliar
among English meadows and English oaks.

Then, looking farther and watching about the
hedges there, I soon found that the bird was not
alone — there were three or four pairs of redwings in
close neighborhood, all evidently bent upon remain-
ing to breed. To make quite sure, I shot one.
Afterwards I found a nest, and had the pleasure of
seeing the 3'oung birds come to maturity and fly.

Nothing could be more thoroughly opposed to the
usual habits of the bird. There may be other instances
recorded, but what one sees oneself leaves so much
deeper an impression. The summer that followed
was a very fine one. It is instances like this that
make one hesitate to dogmatize too much as to the
why and wherefore of bird-ways. Yet it is just the
speculation as to that why and wherefore which in-
creases the pleasure of observing them.

Then there is the corncrake, of whose curious
tricks in the mowing-grass I have already written.
The crake's rules of migration are not easily recon-
ciled with any theory I have ever heard of. In the
particular locaUty which has been described the
crakes come earl}^, they enter the mowing-grass

Packing. 269

and remain there till after it is cnt ; immediately
afterwards the}' are heard in the corn. Presentl}-
they are silent and supposed to be gone ; but I have
heard of their being shot in the opening of the shoot-
ing season on the uplands. The cry of the crake
in that localit}^ is so common and so continuous as
to form one of the most striking features of the
spring : the farmers listen for them, and note their
first arrival just as for the cuckoo — which it may be
observed, in passing, even in England keeps time
with the young figs.

But when I had occasion to pass a spring in
Surrey the first thing I noticed was the rarit}' of the
crakes ; I heard one or two at most, and that only
for a short time. Long before the grass was mown
they were gone — doubtless northwards, having only
called in passing. I am told the}' call again in
coming back, and are occasionally shot in Sep-
tember. But the next spring, chancing again to
be in Surrey at that season, though constantly about
out of doors, I never heard a crake but once — one
single call — and even then was not quite sure of it.
I am told, again, that there are parts of the county
wdiere they are more numerous : the}^ were certainly
scarce those two seasons in that locality. Now here
we have an instance in direct contradiction to the
suggestion that the early state of vegetation is at-
tractive to our spring visitors. The crakes appeared
to come earlier, in larger numbers, and to be more
contented and make a longer stay in the colder
county than in the warm one.

The packing of birds is very interesting, and no
thoroughly satisfactory explanation of it, that I am

270 Intermarriage.

aware of, has ever been discoverecl. It is one of the
most prominent facts in their history. It is not for
warmth, because the}^ pack long before it is cold.
This summer I saw large flocks of starlings flying to
their favorite firs to roost on the evening of the 19th
of June. The cuckoo was singing on the 17th two
days before.

It would be interesting to know, too, whether
birds are reall}' as free in the choice of their mates in
spring as at first sight appears. They return to the
same places, the same favorite hedge, and even the
same tree. Now, when the flocks split up into sec-
tions as the spring draws near, each section or party
seems to revisit the hedge from which the}" departed
last autumn. Do they, then, intermarry year after
year? and is that the reason why they return to the
same locality? The fact of a pair building by chance
in a certain hedge is hardly enough to account for
the yearly return of birds to the spot. It seems more
like the return of a tribe or gens to its own special
locality. The members of such a gens must in that
case be closelj^ related. As it is not possible to
identify individual birds, the difficulty of arriving at
a clear understanding is great.

Why, again, do not robins pack? Wh^^ do not
blackbirds, and thrushes, go in flocks? They never
merge their individuality all the year round. Even
herons, though they fish separatel}^, are gregarious
in building, and also often in a sense pack during
the day, standing together on a spit or sandbank.
Rooks, starlings, wood-pigeons, fieldfares, and red-
wings, mav be seen in winter all feeding in the same
field, and all in large flocks.

Tomtits. 271

Some evidence of a supposed tcndenc.y to inter-
marry among birds ma}' perhaps be deduced from
the practice of tlie long-tailed titmouse. This spe-
cies builds a nest exactly like a hut, roof included,
and in it several birds lay their eggs : as many as
twenty eggs are sometimes found ; fourteen is a
common number. Here there is not only the closest
relationship, but a system of community. This tit
has a way sometimes of puffing up its feathers —
they are fluff}', and in that state look like fur — and
uttering a curious sound much resembling the squeak
of a mouse ; hence, perhaps, the affix ' mouse' to its
name.

The tomtit also packs, and flies in small parties
almost all the year round. They remain in such
parties until the very time of nesting. On March
24tli last, while watching the approach of a snow-
storm, I noticed that a tall birch tree — whose long,
slender, weeping branches showed distinctl}' against
the dark cloud — seemed to have fruit hanging at
the end of several of the boughs. On going near I
counted six tomtits, as busy as they could be, pen-
dent from as many tiny drooping boughs, as if at
the end of a string, and swinging to and fro as the
rude blast struck the tree. The six in a few min-
utes increased to eight, then to nine, then to twelve,
and at last there were fourteen together, all depen-
dent fi'om the very tiniest drooping boughs, all
swinging to and fro as the snow-flakes came silently
floating by, and all chuckling and calling to each
other. The ruder the blast and the more they swung
— heads downwards — the merrier the}' seemed,
busily picking away at the 3'oung buds. Some of
them remained in the tree more than an hour.

272 Peewits.

Peewits or lapwings not onl}' pack in the winter,
but may almost be said to pass the nesting-time to-
gether. There are two favorite localities in the dis-
trict, which has been more particularly described,
much frequented by these birds. One is among
some water-meadows, where the grass is long earlier
in the spring than elsewhere ; there the first bennet
pushes up its green staff — country people always
note the appearance of the first bennet — and the
first cuckoo-flower opens. Several nests are made
here on the ground, in comparatively close con-
tiguity.

Upon approaching, the old bird flies up, circles
round, and comes so near as almost to be within
reach, whistling ' pee-wit, pee-wit,' over your head.
He seems to tumble in the air as if wounded and
scarcely able to fly ; and those who are not aware
of his intention may be tempted to pursue, thinking
to catch him. But so soon as you are leaving the
nest behind he mounts higher, and wheels ofl" to a
distant corner of the field, uttering an ironical ' pee-
wit' as he goes. If you neglect his invitation to
catch him if you can, and search for the nest or
stand still, he gets greatly excited and comes much
closer, and in a few minutes is joined b}' his mate,
who also circles round ; while several of their friends
fly at a safer distance, whistling in S3'mpathy.

Then you have a good opportunity of observing
the peculiar motion of their wings, which seem to
strike simply downwards and not also backwards,
as with other birds ; it is a quick jerking movement,
the wing giving the impression of pausing the tenth
of a second at the finish of the stroke before it is

Ant-hills. 273

lifted again. If 3'ou pass on a short distance and
make no effort to find the nest, they recover confi-
dence and descend. When the peewit alights lie
runs along a few yards rapidly, as if carried by the
impetus. He is a handsome bird, with a well-marked
crest.

The other locality to which I have referred was a
wide open field full of ant-hills. There must have
been eight or ten acres of these hills. They rose
about eighteen inches or two feet, of a conical shape,
and overgrown by turf, like thousands of miniature
extinct volcanoes. They were so near together that
it was easy to pass twenty or thirt}' yards without
once touching the proper surface of the ground, by
springing from one ant-hill to the other. Thick
bunches of rushes grew between, and innumerable
thistles flourished, and here and there scattered haw-
tliorn bushes stood. It was a favorite place with
the finches ; the hawthorn bushes alwaj's had nests
in them. Thyme grew luxuriantlv on the ground
between the nests and on the ant-hills. AVild thyme
and ants are often found together, as on the Downs.
How many millions of ants must have been needed
to raise these hillocks ! and what still more incalcu-
lable numbers must have lived in them ! A wilder
spot could scarcely have been imagined, though situ-
ate between rich meadow and ploughed lands.

There was always a cove}' of partridges about the
field ; but they could not have had such a feast of
eggs as would naturally- be supposed, because in the
course of time a crust of turf had grown over the
ant-hills. The temporary hills of loose earth thrown
up every summer by the sides of the fields, w^here
18

274 Cultivation of Waste Land.

the}^ can lay bare a whole nest with two or three
scratches, must afford much more food. Had it been
otherwise all the partridges in the neigliborhood
would have gathered together here ; but there never
seemed more than one or two coveys about.

The peewits had nests year after year in this
place, and even when the nesting-time was over a few
might often be seen. The land for agricultural pur-
poses was almost valueless, there being so little
herbage upon which cattle could graze, and no pos-
sibility of mowing any ; so in the end gangs of labor-
ers were set to work and the ant-hills levelled, and,
indeed, bodily removed. Thus this last piece of
waste land was brought into use.

Upon the Downs there is a place haunted by some
few peewits. In the colder months the^' assemble
in flocks, and visit the arable land where it is of a
poor cliaracter, or where there are signs of peat in the
soil. By the shores of the lake they may, too, be
often seen. I have counted sixty in one flock, and
have seen flocks so numerous as to be unable to
count them accurately ; that of course was excep-
tional, but the}^ are by no means uncommon birds in
this district. In others it seems quite a rare thing
to see a lapwing.

They often appear to fly for a length of time
together for the mere pleasure of fl.ying. The}^ rise
without the slightest cause of alarm, and sail about
to and fro over the same field for half an hour, then
settle and feed again, and presentl}' take wing and
repeat the whirling about overhead. Solitar}' peewits
will do the same thing ; you would imagine the}'
were going oS at a great pace, instead of which back

Crows. 275

they come in a raimite or two. Other birds fly for a
purpose ; the peewit seems to find enjo^'uient beating
to and fro in the air.

Crows frequently build in oaks, and unless the}'-
are driven away b}^ shot will return to the same
neighborhood the following year. The}^ appear to
prefer places near water, and long after the nesting-
time is past will visit the spot. Small birds will
sometimes angrily- pursue them through the air as
they will hawks. As autumn approaches the swal-
lows congregate on warm afternoons on church
steeples ; they may be seen whirUng round and
round in large flocks, and presently settling. I saw
a crow go past a steeple a short time since, where
there was a crowd of swallows, when immediately the
whole flock took wing, and circled about the crow,
following him for some distance. He made an
awkward attempt once to get at some of them, but
their swiftness of wing took them far out of his reach.
Crows make no friends ; rooks, on the contrary make
many, and are often accompanied by several other
species of birds. A certain friendliness, too, seems
to exist between sparrows, chaffinches, and green-
finches, which are often found together.

Some fields are divided into two by a long line of
posts and rails, which in time become gray from the
lichen growing on the wood. The cuckoos in spring
seem to like resting on such rails better than the
hedges ; and when they are courting, two, or even
three, maj' be sometimes seen on them together.
Preseutl}' they fl}', and are lost sight of behind the
trees ; but one or other is nearly sure to come back
to the rails again after a while. Cuckoos perch fre-

276 Cuckoos.

quentl}', too, on those solitary upright stones which
here and there stand in the midst of the fields. This
habit of theirs is quoted by some of the old folks as
an additional proof that the cuckoo is onl}' a hawk
changed for the time, and unable to forget his old
habits, — hawks (and owls) perching often on poles
or an^' thing upright and detached.

The cuckoo flies so much like the hawk, and so
resembles it, as at the first glance to be barely dis-
tinguishable ; but on watching more closely it will be
seen that the cuckoo flies straight and level, with a
gentle fluttering of the wings, which never seem to
come forward, so that in outline he resembles a cres-
cent, the convex side in fronts His tail appears
longer in proportion, and more pointed ; his flight is
like that of a very large swallow flying straight. The
cuckoo's cry can perhaps be heard farther than the
call of any other bird. The heron's power of voice
comes nearest : he sails at a great height, and his
' quaaack,' drawn out into a harsh screech, ma}' be
heard at a long distance. But then he has the ad-
vantage of elevation ; the cuckoo never rises above
the tops of the elms.

Yellow-hammers have a habit of sitting on a rail
or bough with their shoulders humped, so that they
seem to have no neck. In that attitude they will
remain a long time, uttering their monotonous chant ;
most other birds stretch themselves and stand upright
to sing. The great docks that grow beside the ditches
are visited by tlie tomtits, who perch on them, — the
stalk of the dock is so strong it supports their light
weight easily. Sparrows may sometimes be seen iu
July, hawking in the air just above the sward by the

Golden-crested Wren. 277

road-side — hovering like tlie kestrel, a foot or so high,
and then suddenly dropping like stones : they are
then so absorbed that they will scarcely fly away on
your ap|)roaeh. At the same time a rather long red
fly is abundant in tlie grass, and may be the attrac-
tion. The swift's long narrow wings shut behind
him as if with a sharp snip, cutting the air like
shears ; and then, holding them extended, he glides
like a quoit.

In old days men used to be on the watch about
the time of the great race-meetings, in order to shoot
at every pigeon that went past, in hope of finding a
message attached to the bird, and so getting the
advantage of early intelhgence. In one such case I
heard of, the pigeon had the name of the winner,
and was shot on a tree where it had alighted, weary
from want of food or uncertain as to its course.

The golden-crested wren — smallest of the birds —
scared}' ever leaves the shelter of the hedges and
trees. The crest or top-knot is not exactly golden,
but rather orange ; and as the bod}' of the tiny crea-
ture is dusky in hue, the bright color on "its head
shines like flame in contrast. By this ruddy lamp
upon its head the wren may be discovered hidden
deep in the intricate mazes of the thorn bushes, where
otherwise it would be difficult to find it. These
wrens are usually in pairs ; I have seldom seen one
by itself. The}' are not rare, and yet are comparatively
little seen, and must I think travel a good deal. All
the same, they have their favorite places ; there was
one hedge where, if the bird was anywhere in the
neighborhood, I could feel sure of finding him. It
was very thick and entirely of hawtliorn and black-
thorn, and divided two water-meadows.

Firat Signs of S'pring.

CHAPTER XVII.

NOTES ON THE YEAR THE TWO NATURAL ERAS

SPIDERS THE SEASONS REPRESENTED TOGETHER — ■

A MURDEROUS WASP FENG-SHUI THE BIRDS'

ELEPHANT HEDGE MEMORANDA.

There are few hedges so thick but that in January
it is possible to see through them, frost and wind
having brought down the leaves. The nettles, liow-
ever, and coarse grasses, dry brown stems of dead
plants, rushes, and moss still in some sense cover the
earth of the mound, and among them the rabbits sit
out in their forms. Looking for these with gun and
spaniel, when the damp mist of the morning has
cleared, one sign — one promise — of the warm days
to come may chance to be found. Though tlie sky
be gloomy, the hedge bare, and the trees gaunt, yet
among the bushes a solitary green leaf has already
put forth. It is on the stalk of the woodbine which
climbs up the hawthorn, and is the first in the new
year — in the very darkest and blackest days — to
show that life is stirring. As it is the first to show
a leaf, so, too, it is one of the latest to yield to the
advancing cold, and even then its bright red berries
leave a speck of color ; and its bloom, in beautj- of
form, hue, and fragrance, is not easilj- surpassed.
While the hedges are so bare the rabbits are un-

Blackthorn. 279

mercifully ferreted, for they will before long begin to
breed. On the milder mornings the thrushes are
singing sweeti}-. Clouds of tin}^ gnats circle in the
sheltered places near houses or thatch. In February-,
' fill-ditch,' as the old folk call it, on account of the
rains, although nominally in the midst of the winter
quarter, there is a distinct step forward. If the
clouds break and the wind is still, the beams of the
sun on the southern side of the wall become pleas-
antly' genial. In the third week the^' bring forth the
yellow butterfly, fluttering gaily over the furze ; while
the larks on a sunny day, chasing each other over the
ploughed fields, make even the brown clods of earth
seem instinct with awakening life. The pairing off
of the birds is now apparent in everj- hedge, and at
the same time on the mounds, and under sheltering
bushes and trees a deeper green begins to show as
the plants push up.

The blackthorn is perhaps the first conspicuous
flower ; but in date it seems to vary much. On the
22d of February, 1877, there were boughs of black-
thorn in full bloom in Surrey, and elder trees in leaf;
nearh' three weeks before that, at the beginning of
the month, there were hawthorn branches in full leaf
in a sheltered nook in Kent. A degree further
west, on the contrary, the hawthorn did not show a
leaf for some time after the blackthorn had bloomed
in Surrey. The farmers say that the grass which
comes on rapidly in the latter da^'s of February and
early days of INIarch, ' man^^ weathers ' (in their
phrase), often 'goes back' later in the season, and
loses its former progress.

Lady da}' ( old style ) forms with Michaehiias the

280 Nature s Lady Day.

two eras, as it were, of the year. The first marks
the departure of tlie winter birds and the coming of
the spring visitors ; the second, in reverse order,
marks the departure of the summer birds and the
appearance of the vanguard of the winter ones. In
the ten da3-s or fortnight succeeding Lady day ( old
style) — say from the 6th of April to the 20th —
gi'eat changes take place in the fauna and flora ; or,
rather, those changes which have long been slowly
maturing become visible. The nightingales arrive
and sing, and with them the white butterfly appears.
The swallow comes, and the wind-anemone blooms
in the copse. Finally the cuckoo cries, and at the
same time the pale lilac cuckoo-flower shows in the
moist places of the mead.

The exact dates, of course, vary with the char-
acter of the season and the locality ; but speaking
generally', jon should begin to keep a keen look-out
for these signs of spring about old Lady day. In
the spring of last 3'ear, in a warm district, the night-
ingale sang on the 12th of April, a swallow appeared
on the 13th, and the note of the cuckoo was heard
on the 15th. No great reliance should be put upon
precise dates, because in the first place the}' vary an-
nually, and in the next an observer can, in astro-
nomical language, only sweep a limited area, and
that but imperfectl}^ ; so that it is very likely some
ploughboy who thinks nothing of it — except to
immediatel}' imitate it — hears the cuckoo forty-
eight hours before those who have been listening
most carefully. So that these dates are not given
because they are of any intrinsic value, but simply
for illustration. On the 14th of April ( the same

Tlie Spider and the Fly. 281

spring ) the fieldfares and redwings were passing
over swiftly in small parties — or, rather, iu a long
flock scattered hy the march — towards the North
Sea and their summer home in Norwa}'. The winter
birds, and the distinctly spring and summer bii-ds,
as it were, crossed each other and were visible to-
gether, their times of arrival and departure over-
lapping.

As the sap rises in plants and trees, so a new life
seems to flow through the veins of bird and animal.
The flood-tide of life rises to its height, and after re-
maining there some time, gradually ebbs. Early in
August the leaves of the limes begin to fade, and a
few shortl}' afterwards fall : the silver birch had spots
of a pale lemon among its foliage this j'ear on August
13. The brake fern, soon after it has attained its
full growth, begins to turn yellow in places. There
is a silence in the hedges and copses, and an appar-
ent absence of birds. But about Michaelmas ( be-
tween the new and old style ) there is a marked
change. It is not that an}- thing particular happens
upon any precise day, but it is a date around which,
just before and after, events seem to group them-
selves.

Towards the latter part of September the geo-
metrical spiders become conspicuous, spinning their
webs on every bush. Some of these attain an enor-
mous size, and, being so large, it is easier to watch
their mode of procedure. When a fly becomes en-
tangled, the spider seizes it by the poll, at the back
of the head, and holds it for a short time till it dies.
Then he rapidly puts a small quantity of web round
it, and next carries it to the centre of the web.

282 Senders' Wehs.

There, taking the dead fly on his feet — much as a
juggler plays with a ball upon his toes — the spider
rolls it round aud round, enveloping it in a cocoon of
web, and finally hangs up his game head uppermost,
and resumes his own position head downwards. An-
other spider wraps his prey in a cocoon b}' spinning
himself and the fly together round and round. At
the end of Septemljer or beginning of October acres
of furze may be seen covered with web in the morn-
ing, w^hen the dew deposited upon it renders it visi-
ble. As the sun dries up the dew the web is no
longer seen.

On September 21 of last year the rooks were soar-
ing and diving ; they continued to do this several
days in succession. I should like to say again that I
attach no importance to these dates, but give them
for illustration : these, too, were taken in a warm
district. Eooks usually soar a good deal about the
time of the equinox. On September 29 the heaths
and furze were white with the spiders' webs alluded
to above. September 27, larks singing jo^'ouslj'.
October 2, a few grasshoppers still calhng in the
grass — heard one or two three or four da^'s later.
October 4, the ivy in full flower. October 7, the
thrushes singing again in the morning. October 6
and 7, pheasants roaming in the hedges for acorns.
October 13, a dragon-fly — large and green — hawk-
ing to and fro on the sunny side of hedge. October
15, the first redwing. During latter part of Sep-
tember and begianing of October, frogs croaking
in the ivy.

Now, these dates would vary greatly in diflerent
localities, but they show, clearer than a mere asser-

A Furious Battle. 283

tion, that about that time there is a movement in
nature. The croaking of frogs, the singing of larks
and thrushes, are distinctly suggestive of spring
( the weather, too, was warm and showery, with
intervals of bright sunshine ) ; the grasshopper and
dragon-fly were characteristic of summer, and there
were a few swallows still flj'ing about ; the pheasants
and the acorns, and the putf-balls, full of minute
powder rising in clouds if struck, spoke of autumn ;
and, finall}^ the first redwing indicated winter : so
that all the seasons were represented together in
about the space of a fortnight. I do not know any
other period of the year which exhibits so remark-
able an assemblage of the representative features
of the four quarters : an artist might design an
emblematic study upon it say for a tesselated pave-
ment.

In the early summer the lime-trees flower, and are
then visited b}' busy swarms of bees, causing a hum
in the air overhead. So, in like manner, on October
16, I passed under an old oak almost hidden by iv}',
and paused to listen to the loud hum made by the
insects that came to the iv}' blossom. They were
principall}^ bees, wasps, large black flies, and tiny
gnats. Suddenly a wasp attacked one of the largest
of the flies, and the two fell down on a bush, where
they brought up on a leaf.

The fly was ver^^ large, of a square build, and
wrestled with its assailant vigorouslj'. But in a few
seconds, the wasp, getting the master}', brought his
tail round, and stung the fly twice, thrice, in rapid
succession in the abdomen, and then held tight.
Almost immediatelv the flv grew feeble : then the

284 Fenff-shuL

wasp snipped off its proboscis, and next the legs.
Then he seized tlie fly just behind the head, and bit
off pieces of the wings ; these, the proboscis, and the
legs dropped to the ground. The fell purpose of the
wasp is not easily described ; he stung and snipped
and bit and reduced his prey to utter helplessness,
without the pause of a second.

So eager was he that while catting the wings to
pieces, he fell off the leaf, but clung tight to the fly,
and, although it was nearly as big as himself, carried
it easil}' to another leaf. There he rolled the fly
round, snipped off the head, which dropped, and
devoured the internal part ; but slipped again and
recovered himself on a third leaf, and as it were
picked the remaining small portion. What had
been a great insect had almost disappeared in a few
minutes.

After the arrival of the fieldfares the da^'s seem
to rapidl}^ shorten, till towards the end of December
the cocks, reversing their usual practice, crow in the
evening, hours before midnight. The cock-crow is
usuallj^ associated with the dawn, and the change of
habit, just when the nights are longest is interesting.

Birds have a Feng-shui of their own — an unwrit-
ten and occult science of the healthy and unhealth}'
places of residence — and seem to select localities in
accordance with the laws of this magical interpre-
tation of nature. The sparrows, by preference,
choose the southern side of a house for their nests.
This is ver}^ noticeable on old thatched houses, where
one slope of the roof happens to face the north and
another the south. On the north side the thatch has
been known to last thirty years without i-enewal —

Wandering Birds and Men. 285

it decays so slowly. The moss, however, grows
thickly on that side, and if not removed would
completel}' cover it. Moss prefers the shade ; and
so in the woodlands the meadows on the north or
shady side of the copses are often quite overgrown
with moss, which is pleasant to walk on, but destroys
the herbage. But on the south side of the roof, the
rain coming from that quarter, the wind and sun
cause the thatch to rapidly- deteriorate, so that it
requires to be constantly repaired.

Now, instead of working their holes into the
northern slope, sheltered from wind and rain, nine
out of ten of the sparrows make their nests on the
south, and, of course, !)}• pulling out the straw still
further assist the decay of the thatch there. The
influence of light seems to be traceable in this ; and
it does occur whether other birds that use trees and
bushes for their nests may not reall}' be guided in
their selection by some similar rule. The trees and
bushes they select to us look much the same as
others ; but the birds may none the less have some
reasons of their own. And as certain localities, as
previously observed, are great favorites with them
and others are deserted, possibly Feng-shui may
have something to do with that also.

The nomadic tribes that live in tents, and wander
over thousands of miles in the East, at the first sight
seem to roam aimlessly, or to be determined simply
by considerations of water and pasture. But those
who have lived with and studied them say that,
though the}' have no maps, each tribe, and even
each particular famil}', has its own special route and
special camping-ground. Could these routes be

286 Irish Harvest Laborers.

mapped out, they would present an interlaced pat-
tern of lines crossing and recrossing without any
appreciable order ; yet one family never interferes
with another family. This statement seems to me
to be most interesting if compared with the habits
of birds that roam hither and thither apparently
without order or method, that come back in the
spring to particular places, and depart again after
their young are reared. Though to us they wander
aimlessly, it is possible that from their point of view
they may be following strictly prescribed routes
sanctioned by immemorial custom.

And so itinerant laborers move about. In the
particular district which has been described their
motions are roughlj' these : In the early spring
they go up on the uplands, where there are many
thousand acres of arable land, for the hoeing. Then
comes a short space of employment — haymaking in
the water meadows that follow the course of the
rivers there, and which are cut ver^^ early. Next,
they return down into the vale, where the ha3'making
has then commenced. Just before it begins the Irish
arrive in small parties, coming all the wa^' from their
native land to gather the high wages paid during the
English harvest-time. The}- show a pleasing attach-
ment to the employer who has once given them work
and treated them with a little kindness. To him they
go first ; and thus it often happens that the same
band of Irish return to the same farm year after jxar
as regularly as the cuckoo. They lodge in an open
shed, making a fire in the corner of the hedge where
it is sheltered. The}' are industrious, work well,
drink little, and bear generally a good character.

Lisp in Bird Language. 287

After the haj-making in tlie yale is finished, the
itinerant families turn towards the liglxter soils,
where the corn crops are fast ripening, and soon
leave the scene of their former labors fift}' miles be-
hind them. A few perhaps straggle back in time to
assist in the latter part of the corn harvest on the
heavy lands, if it has been delayed by the weather.
The physicians say that change of air is essential to
health : the migration of birds may not be without
its effect upon their lives, quite apart from the search
for food alone.

The dry walls which sometimes enclose corn fields
(built of flat stones) are favorite places with many
birds. The yellow-hammers often alight on them ;
so do the finches and larks ; for the coarse mortar
laid on the top decays and is overgrown with mosses
so that it loses the hard appearance of a wall.
When the sparrow who has waited till you are close
to him suddenlj- starts, his wings, beating the air,
make a sound like, the string of a bow pulled and re-
leased, to try it without an arrow.

Tlie dexterous way in which a bird helps itself to
thistle-down is interesting to watch. The thistle has
no branch on which he can perch ; he must take it
on the wing. He flies straight to the head of the
thistle, stoops as it were, seizes the down, and
passes on with it in the bill to the nearest bough —
much in the same way as some tribes of horsemen
are i-elated to pick up a lance from the ground whilst
going at full speed.

Many birds twirl their ' r's ; ' others lisp as the
nightingale, and instead of 'sweet' say ' thweet,
thweet.' The finches call to each other, ' Kj'wee,

288 The Birds' White Elephant.

k3'wee — tweo — tliweet,' which, whatever va^j be
its true translation, has a i^ecuUarlj' soothing effect
on the ear. Swifts usuall}' fly at a great height, and
being scattered in the atmosphere, do not appear
numerous ; but sometimes during a stiff gale they
descend and concentrate over an open field, there
wheeling round and to and fro onl}- just above the
grass. Then the ground looks quite black with them
as they dart over it : thej' exhibit no fear, but if you
stand in the midst come all around 3'ou so close that
they might be knocked down with a walking-stick if
used quick enough. In the air they do not look
large, but when so near as this they are seen to be
of considerable size. The appearance of hundreds
of these jet black, long-winged birds, flying with
man'ellous rapidity and threading an inextricable
maze almost, as it were, under foot, is very striking.
The proverbial present of a white elephant is par-
alleled in bird life b}' the gift of the cuckoo's egg.
The bird whose nest is chosen never deserts the
strange changeling, but seems to feel feeding the
young cuckoo to be a sacred duty, and sees its own
3'oung ejected and perishing without apparent con-
cern. My attention was called one spring to a
robin's nest made in a stubble rick ; there chanced
to be a slight hollow in the side of the rick, and this
had been enlarged. A cuckoo laid her egg in the
nest, and as it happened to be near some cowsheds
it was found and watched. When the young bird
began to get fledged some sticks were inserted in the
rick so as to form a cage, that it might not escape,
and there the cuckoo grew to maturity and to full
feather.

The Cuckoo's FoHter-parents. 289

All the while the labor undergone by the robins in
supplying the wide throat of the cuckoo with food
W'as something incredible. It was onl}- necessary
to wait a very few minutes before one or other came,
but the voracious creature seemed never satisfied ;
he was bigger than both his foster-parents put to-
gether, and t\\{iy waited on him like slaves. It was
really distressing to see their unrewarded toil. Now
no argument will ever convince me that the robin or
the wagtail, or any other bird in whose nest the
cuckoo lays its egg, can ever confound the intruding
progeny with its own offspring. Irrespective of size,
the plumage is so different ; and there is another
reason wh}' they must know the two apart : the
cuckoo as he grows larger begins to resemble the
hawk, of which all birds are well known to feel
the greatest, terror. They will pursue a cuckoo ex-
actl_y as they will a hawk.

I will not sa}' that that is because they mistake it
for a hawk, for the longer I observe the, more I am
convinced that birds and animals often act from
causes quite distinct from those which at first sight
appear sufficient to account for their motions. But
about the fact of the lesser birds chasing the cuckoo
there is no doubt. Are they endeavoring to drive
her away that she ma}' not lay her egg in either of
their nests? In any case it is clear that birds do
recognize the cuckoo as something distinct from
themselves, and therefore I will never believe that
the foster-parent for a moment supposes the young
cuckoo to be its own oflTspring.

To our eyes one young robin (meaning out of the
nest — on the hedge) is almost identical with another
19

290 Humane .Robins.

^•oung robin ; to our ears the querulous cry of one
for food is confusingly like that of another : 3'et the
various parent birds easily distinguish, recognize,
and feed their own young. Then to suppose that,
with such powers of observation — with the keenness
of vision that can detect an insect or a worm moving
in the grass from a branch twenty feet or more
above it, and detect it while to all appearance en-
gaged in watching your approach — to suppose that
the robin does not know that the cuckoo is not of its
order is past credit. The robin is much too intelli-
gent. Why, then, does he feed the intruder? There
is something here approaching to the sentiment of
humanity, as-we should call it, towards the fellow-
creature.

The cuckoo remained in the cage for some time
after it had attained sufficient size to shift for itself,
but the robins did not desert it : the}' clearly- under-
stood that while thus confined it had no power of ob-
taining food and must starve. Unfortunatel}', a cat
at last discovered the cuckoo, which was found on
the ground dead but not eaten. The robins came to
the spot afterwards — not with food, but as if they
missed their charge.

The easy explanation of a blind instinct is not
satisfactory to me. On the other hand, the doctrine
of heredity hardly explains the facts, because how
few birds' ancestors can have had experience in
cuckoo-rearing? There is no analogy with the cases
of goats and other animals suckling strange species ;
because in those instances there is the motive — at all
eyents in the beginning — of relief from the painful
pressure of the milk. But the robins had no such

Ventriloquists. 291

interested motive : all their interests were to get I'id
of their visitor. Ma}' we not suppose, then, that
"what was begun through the operation of hereditary'
instinct, ^.e., the feeding of the cuckoo, while still
small and before the 3'oung robins had been ejected,
w\as continued from an affection that graduall}' grew
\\]i for the helpless intruder? Higher sentiments than
those usually attributed to the birds and beasts of
the field ma}-, I think, be traced in some of their
actions.

To the number of these birds whose call is more
or less apparently' ventriloquial the partridge ma}- be
added ; for when they are assembling in the evening
at the roosting-place their calls in the stubble often
sound some wa}' to the right or left of the real posi-
tion of the bird, which presently appears emerging
from the turnips ten or fifteen yards farther up than
was judged b}' the ear. It is not reall}' ventriloquial,
but caused by the rapid movements and by the cir-
cumstance of the bird being out of sight.

We constantly hear that the area of pasture in
England is extending, and gradually overlapping ara-
ble lands ; and the question suggests itself whether
this, if it continues, will not have some effect upoa
bird and animal life by favoring those that like grass
lands and diminishing those that prefer the ploughed.
On and near ploughed lands modern agriculture
endeavors to cut down trees and covers and grub up
hedges, not only on account of their shade and the
injur}' done by their roots, but because they are sup-
posed to shelter sparrows and other birds. But pas-
ture and meadow are favorable to hedges, trees, and
covers : wherever there is much grass there is gen-

292 Stray Notes.

erally plenty of wood ; and this again — if hedges
and small covers extend in a corresponding degree
with pasture — may affect bird life.

A young dog may be taught to hunt almost any-
thing. Young pointers will point birds' nests in
hedges or trees, and discover them quicker than any
lad. If a dog is properl}- trained, of course this is
not allowed ; but if not trained, after accompanying
boys nesting once or twice they will enter into the
search with the greatest eagerness. Laborers occa-
sionally make caps of dog-skin, preserved wdth the
hair on. Cats not uncommonly put a paw into the
gins set for rabbits or rats. The sharp teeth break
the bone of the leg, but if the cat is found and let
out she will often recover — running about on three
legs till the injured fore-foot drops off at the joint,
when the stump heals up. Foxes are sometimes seen
running on three legs and a stump, having met with a
similar disaster. Cats contrive to climb some way
up the perpendicular sides of wheat ricks after the
mice.

The sparrows are the best of gleaners : the}' leave
verj' little grain in the stubble. The women who go
gleaning now make up their bundles in a clums}^ way.
Now, the old gleaners used to tie up their bundles in
a clever manner, doubling the straw in so that it
bound itself and enabled them to carry a larger
quantity. Even in so trifling a matter there are two
ways of doing it, but the ancient traditionary work-
manship is dying out. The sheaves of corn, when
set up in the field leaning against each other, bear a
certain likeness to hands folded in prayer. By the
side of corn-fields the wild parsnip sometimes grows

aiant Ivy. 293

in great profusion. If dug up for curiosity the root
hus a strong odor, like the cultivated vegetable, but
is small and woody. Everyone who has gathered
the beautiful scarlet poppies must have noticed the
perfect INIaltese cross formed inside the broad petals
by the black markings.

Beetles fl}^ in the evening with such carelessness
as to strike against people — they come against the
face with quite a smart blow. Miserable beetles may
sometimes be seen eaten almost hollow within b}' in-
numerable parasites. The laborers call those hairy
caterpillars which curl in a circle ' Devil's rings ' — a
remnant of the old superstition that attributed every
thing that looked strange to demoniacal agenc3^

There is a tendencj^ to variation even in the com-
mon buttercup. Not long since I saw one with a
double flower ; the i^etals of each were complete and
distinct, the two flowers being set back to back on the
top of the stalk. The stem of one of the bryonies
withers up so completely that the shrinkage, aided by
a little wind, snaps it. Then a bunch of red berries
ma}^ be seen hanging from the lower boughs of a tree

— a part of the stem, twined round, remaining there

— the berries look as if belonging to the tree itself,
the other part of the stem having fallen to the
ground.

In clay soils the ivy does not attain any large size ;
but where there is some admixture of loam, or sand,
it flourishes ; I have seen ivy whose main stem
growing up the side of an oak was five inches in dia-
meter, and had some pretensions to be called timber.
The bulrush, which is usually associated with water,
does not grow in a great many brooks and ponds ; in

294 Hedge Proverbs.

some districts it is even rare, and it requires a con-
siderable searcli to find a group of tliese handsome
rushes. Water-hhes are equally absent from certain
districts. Elms do not seem to flourish near water ;
they do not reach any size, and a white, unhealthy-
looking sap exudes from the trunk. Water seems,
too, to check the growth of ash after it has reached
a moderate size. Does the May bloom, which is
almost proverbial for its sweetness, occasionalh' turn
sour, as it were, before a thunderstorm ? Bushes cov-
ered with this flower certainl}^ emit an unpleasant
smell, sometimes quite distinct from the usual odor
of the May.

The hedge is so intensely English and so mixed
up in all popular ideas that it is no wonder it forms
the basis of many proverbs and sayings — such as,
' The sun does not shine on both sides of the hedge
at once,' ' rough as a hedge,' the verb ' to hedge,' and
so on. Has any attempt ever been made to cultivate
the earth-nut, pig-nut, or ground-nut, as it is variously
called, which the ploughboys search for and dig up
with their clasp-knives ? It is found by the small
slender stalk it sends up, and insiguiflcant white
flower, and lies a few inches below the surface ; the
ploughboA's thiuk much of it, and it seems just pos-
sible that cultivation might improve it.

Rare birds do not afford much information as a
rule — seen for a short time onlj-, it is difficult to dis-
cover much about them. I followed one of the rarer
woodpeckers one morning for a long time, but not-
withstanding all my care and trouble could not learn
much of its waj's.

Even among cows there are some rudiments of

Precedence among Coivs. 295

government. Those who tend them say that each
cow in a herd has her master (or rather mistress),
whom she is obliged to yield precedence to, as in
passing through a gatewa3\ If she shows any s}'mp-
toms of rebellion the other attacks her with her horns
until she flies. A strange cow turned in among a
herd is at once attacked and beaten till she gets her
proper jjlace — finds her level — when she is left in
peace. The two cows, however, when they have as-
certained which is strongest, become good friends,
and frequently lick each other with their rough
tongues, which seems to give them much satisfaction.
Dogs running carelessly along beside the road fre-
quentl}' go sideways : one shoulder somewhat in
front of the other, which gives the animal the ap-
pearance of being ever on the point of altering his
course. The longer axis of the body is not parallel
to the course he is following. Is this adopted for
ease? Because, the moment the dog hears his master
whistle, and rushes forward hastily, the sidelong at-
titude disappears.

296 Snake Lore.

CHAPTER XVIII.

SNAKE-LORE SNAKES SWALLOWING FROGS SWIM-
MING FOND OF MILK TRAPPING SNAKES FROGS

CLIMBING TOADS IN TREES THE BROOK THE

HATCH kingfishers' HAUNTS.

There are three kinds of snakes, according to the
cottage people — namel}', water snakes, grass snakes,
and black snakes. The first frequent the brooks,
ponds, and with3--beds ; the second live in the mounds
and hedges, and go out into the grass to find their
prey : the third are so distinguished because of a
darker color. The cottage people should know, as
they see so many during the summer ; but they have
simply given the same snake a different name because
they notice it in different places. The common snake
is, in fact, partial to the water, and takes to it readily.
It does, however, seem to be correct that some indi-
viduals are of a blacker hue than the rest, and so
have been supposed to constitute a distinct kind.

These creatures, like eveiy other, have tlieir favor-
ite localities ; and, while 3'ou ma^- search whole fields
in vain, along one single dry sandy bank ^'ou may
sometimes find half a dozen, and they haunt the same
spot year after year. So soon as the violets push up
and open their sweet-scented flowers under the first
warm gleams of the spring sunshine, the snake ven-

Snakes' Eggs. 297

tares forth from his hole to bask ou the south side of
the bank. In looking for violets it is not unusual to
hear a rustling of the dead leaves that still strew the
ground, and to see the pointed tail of a snake being
dragged after him under cover.

In February there are sometimes a few da3-s of
warm weather (about the last week) , and a solitary
snake ma}" perhaps chance to crawl forth ; but they
are not generally' visible till later, and, if it be a cold
spring, remain torpid till the wind changes. When
the hedges have grown green, and the sun, rising
higher in the sky, raises the temperature, even though
clouds be passing over, the snakes appear regularly,
but even then not till the sun has been up some
hours. Later on they ma^' occasional!}' be found
coiled up in a circle two together on the bank.

In the summer some of them appear of great
thickness — almost as big round as the wrist. These
are the females, and are about to deposit their eggs-
The}' may usually be noticed close to cow-3'ards.
The cattle in summer graze in the fields and the sheds
are empt}' ; but there are large manure heaps over-
grown with weeds, and in these the snakes' eggs are
left. Rabbits are fond of visiting these cow-yards —
many of which are at a distance from the farmstead
— and sometimes bring forth a litter there.

When the mowers have laid the tall grass in swathes
snakes are often found on them or under them by the
haymakers, whose prongs or forks throw the grass
about to expose a large surface to the gun. The
haymakers kill them without mercy, and numbers
thus meet with their fate. The}' vary very much in
size — from eiahteen inches to three feet in length.

298 Leaping Snakes.

I have seen specimens which could not have been less
than four feet long, and as thick as a rake-handle.
That would be an exceptional case, but not alto-
gether rare. The laborers will tell you of much
larger snakes, but I never saw one.

There is no subject, indeed, upon which thej-^ make
such extraordinary statements, evidently believing
what the}' say, as about snakes. A man told me
once that he had been pursued by a snake, which
rushed after him at such a speed that he could barely
escape ; the snake not onl}- glided but actually leaped
over the ground. Now this must have been pure
imagination : he fancied he saw an adder, and fled,
and in his terror thought himself pursued. They
constantly- state that they have seen adders ; but I am
confident that no viper exists in this district, nor for
some miles round. That they do elsewhere of course
is well known, but not here ; neither is the slowworm
ever seen.

The belief that snakes can jump — or coil them-
selves up and spring — is, however, very prevalent.
They all tell you that a snake can leap across a ditch.
This is not true. A snake, if alarmed, will make for
the hedge ; and he glides much faster than would be
supposed. On reaching the ' shore ' or edge of the
ditch he projects his head over it, and some six or
eight inches of the neck, while the rest of the body
slides down the slope. If it happens to be a steep-
sided ditch he often loses his balance and rolls to the
bottom ; and that is what has been mistaken for leap-
ing. As he rises up the mound he follows ^ zigzag
course, and presently enters some small hole or a
cavit}' in a decajdng stole. After creeping in some

A Snake in the Grass. 299

distance he often meets with an ohstruction, and has
to remain half in and half out till he can force his
way. He usnallj^ takes possession of a mouse-hole,
and does not seem to be able to enlarge it for ad-
ditional convenience. If 3'ou put your stick on his
head as he slips through the grass his body rolls and
twists, and almost ties itself in a knot.

I have never been able to find a snake in the
actual process of divesting his body of the old skin,
but have several times disturbed them from a bunch
of grass and found the slough in it. There was an
old wall, very low and somewhat ruinous, much over-
grown with barley-like grasses, where I found a
slough several times in succession, as if it had been a
favorite resort for the purpose. The slough is a pale
color — there is no trace on it of the snake's natural
hue, and it has when fresh an appearance as if var-
nished — me^aning not the brown color of varnish, but
the smoothness. A thin transparent film represents
the eyes, so that the countr}- folk say the snake skins
his own e3-es.

A forked stick is the best thing to catch a snake
with : the fork pins the head to the ground without
doing any injury. If held up by the tail — that is the
wa}^ the country lads carry them — the snake will not
let its head hang down, but holds it up as far as pos-
sible : he does not, however, seem able to crawl up
himself, so to say ; he is helpless in that position. If
he is allowed to touch the arm he immediately coils
round it. A snake is sometimes found on the roofs
of cottages. The roof in such cases is low, and con-
nected by a mass of ivy with the ground, overgrown
too with moss and weeds.

300 Snake versus Frog.

The mowers, who sleep a good deal under the
hedges, have a tradition that a snake will sometimes
crawl down a man's throat if he sleeps on the ground
with his mouth open. There is also a superstition
among the haymakers of snakes having been bred in
the stomachs of human beings, from drinking out of
ponds or streams frequented by water snakes. Such
snakes — green, and in every respect like the field
snake — have, according to them, been vomited by
the unfortunate persons afflicted with this strange
calamity. It is curious to note in connection with
this superstition the ignorance of the real habits of
these creatures exhibited by people whose whole Uves
are spent in the fields and by the hedges.

Now and then a peculiar squealing sound may be
heard proceeding from the grass ; on looking about it
is found to be made by a frog in the extremity of
mortal terror. A snake has seized one of his hind
legs and has already swallowed a large part of it.
The frog struggles and squeals, but it is in vain ; the
snake, if once he takes hold, will gradually get him
down. I have several times released frogs from this
horrible position ; they hop off apparently unhurt
if only the leg has been swallowed. But on one
occasion I found a frog quite half gone down the
throat of its dread persecutor : I compelled the snake
to disgorge it, but the frog died soon afterwards.
The frog being a broad creature, wide across the
back — at least twice the width of the snake — it ap-
pears surprising how the snake can absorb so large a
thing.

In the nesting season snakes are the terror of
those birds that build in low bushes. I have never

Snakes Swimming. 301

seen a snake in a tree ( thongh I ha^-e heard of their
getting up trees ) , but I have seen them in hawthorn
buslies several feet from the ground, and apparently
proceeding along the boughs with ease. I once
found one in a bird's nest : the nest was empty — the
snake had doubtless had a feast, and was enjoying
deglutition. In some places where snakes are numer-
ous, boys when bird's-nesting always give the nest a
gentle thrust with a stick first before putting the hand
in, lest they should grasp a snake instead of eggs. The
snake is also accused of breaking and sucking eggs
— some sa}' it is the hard-set eggs he prefers ; whether
that be so or no, eggs are certainl}-- often found
broken and the .yolk gone. When the young fledg-
lings fall out of the nest on the ground the}- run
great risk from snakes.

When sitting in a punt in summer, moored a hun-
dred 3'ards or more from shore, I have often watched
a snake swim across the lake, in that place about
three hundred yards wide. In the distance all that
is visible is a small black spot moving steadily over
the water. This is the snake's head, which he holds
above the surface, and which vibrates a little from
side to side with the exertions of the muscular body.
As he comes nearer a slight swell undulates on each
side, marking his progress. Snakes never seem to
venture so far from shore except when it is per-
fectly cahn. The movement of the body is exactl}^
the same as on land — the snake glides over the sur-
face, the bends of its body seeming to act like a screw.
They go at a good pace, and with the greatest ap-
parent ease. In wallving beside the meadow brooks,
not everywhere, but in localities where these reptiles

302 Odor of Snakes.

are common, every now and then 3'ou may see a
snake strike off from the shore and swim across,
twining in and out the stems of the green flags till he
reaches the aquatic grass on the mud and disappears
among it.

One warm summer's day I sat down on the sward
under an oak, and leaned my gun against it, intend-
ing to watch the movements of a pair of woodpeckers
who had young close by. But the drowsy warmth
induced slumber, and on waking — probablj* after
the lapse of some time — I found a snake coiled on
the grass under one of my legs. I kept perfectly
still, being curious to see what the snake would do.
He watched me with his keen eyes as closely as I
watched him. So long as there was absolute still-
ness, he remained ; the moment I moved, out shot
his forked black tongue, and away he went into the
ditch as rapidly as possible.

Some countr}^ people say they can ascertain if a
hedge is frequented b}' snakes, by a peculiar smell :
it is certain that if one is killed, especially if worried
by a dog, there is an unpleasant odor. That they
lie torpid during the winter is generally understood ;
but though I have kept an eye on the grubbing of
many hedges for the purpose of observing what was
found, I never saw a snake disturbed from his
winter sleep. But that may be accounted for by
their taking alarm at the jar and vibration of the
earth under the strokes of the axe at the tough roots
of thorn stoles and ash, and so getting away. Be-
sides which it is likely enough that these particular
hedges may not have been favorite localities with
them. They are said to eat mice, and to enter

Extraordinary Ga-pture of Snakes. 303

dairies sometimes for the milk spilled on the flag-
stones of the floor. ^ 'i'li(?y ™^J often be found in
the farrows in the meadows, which act as surface
drains and are damp.

Frogs have some power of climbing. I have
found them on the roofs of outhouses which were
covered with iv}' ; they must have got up the \\y.
Their toes are, indeed, to a certain degree prehen-
sile, and they can cling with them. They sometimes
make a low sound while in the ivy on such roofs ; to
my ear it sounds like a hoarse ' coo.' Cats occasion-
all}' catch frogs by the leg, and torment them, letting
the creature go only to seize it again, and finally de-
vouring it. The wretched creature squeals with pain
and terror exactly as when caught b}^ a snake.

No surer sign of coming rain than the appearance
of the toad on the garden paths is known. Many

1 An extraordinary instance of this has been very kindly
communicated to me by the writer of the following letter : —

'KixosTON Vicarage, Wareham, Dorset,
October 27, 1878.

'Dear Sir, — Apropos of your reference to the notion that
snakes drink milk, I think it may interest you to hear of a
curious instance of this which occurred near here about three
months ago. At Kingswood, the home farm of Kempstone
(Mr. J. H. Calcraft's place, near Corfe Castle), the dairyman
noticed that something seemed to enter the dairy through a
hole in the Avail and take the milk. Thinking it was a mouse
or rat, he set a common gin at the hole, and caught a snake
every day until he had caught seventeen ! Mr. Calcraft
would corroborate this. My informant is Mr Bankes, rector
of Corfe Castle, who heard it from the dairyman himself.
'Faithfully yours,

' S. C. Spencer Smith.'

804 Neivts and Toads.

cottage folk will still tell you that the hunrlreds and
hundreds of tiny frogs which may sometimes be seen
quite covering the ground fall from the sky, notwith-
standing the fact that the}' do not appear during the
rain, but a short time afterwards. And there are
certain places where such crowds of these creatures
may be oftener found than elsewhere. I knew one
such place ; it was a gatewa}' where the clayey soil
for some way round the approach had been trampled
firm b}- the horses and cattle.. This gateway was
close to a slowly running brook, so slow as to be all
but stagnant. Here I have seen legions of them on
several occasions, all crowding on the ground worn
bare of grass, as if they preferred that to the
herbage.

Newts seem to prefer stagnant or nearly stagnant
ponds, and are rarel}' seen in running water. Clay-
pits from whence clay has been dug for brickmalring,
and which are now full of water, are often frequented
by them, as also by frogs in almost innumerable
numbers in spring, when their croaking can be heard
fift}^ yards away when it is still.

Laborers say that sometimes in grubbing out the
butt of an old tree — previously sawn down — they
have found a toad in a cavity of the solid wood, and
look upon it as a great wonder. But such old trees
are often hollow at the bottom, and the hollows com-
municate with the ditch, so that the toad probably
had no difficulty of access. The belief in the venom
of the toad is still current, and some will tell you
that they have had sore places on their hands from
having accidentall}" touched one.

They say, too, that an irritated snake, if it cannot

By the Brook. 305

escape, will strike at the hand and bite, though harm-
less. Snakes will, indeed, twist round a threatening
stick ; and, as it is evidently a motion induced by
anger, the question arises whether they have some
power of constriction. If so, it is shght. In sum-
mer a few snakes ma}' always be found by the stream
that runs through the fields near Wick farm.

This brook, like man}' others, in its downward
course is checked at irregular intervals by hatches
built for the purpose of forcing water out into the
meadows, or up to ponds at some distance from the
stream at which the cattle in the sheds drink. Some-
times the water is thus led up to a farmstead ; some-
times the farmstead is situate on the ver}' banks of
the brook, and the hatch is within a few yards. Be-
sides the movable hatches, the stream in many places
is crossed b}' ba3's (formed of piles of cla}') , which
either irrigate adjacent meads or keep the water in
ponds at a convenient level.

A lonely moss-grown hatch, which stands in a
quiet shady corner not far from the lake, is a favor-
ite resort of the kingfishers. Though these brilliantly
colored birds ma,\ often be seen skimming across
the surface of the mere, they seem to obtain more
food from the brooks and ponds than from the
broader expanse of water above. In the brooks they
find overhanging branches upon which to perch and
watch for their prey, and without which they can
do nothing. In the lake the only places where such
boughs can be found are the shallow stretches where
the bottom is entirelj' mud, and where the water is
almost hidden by weeds. Willows grow there in
great quantities, and some of their branches ma}' be
20

306 The Kingfisher.

available ; but then the water is hidden by weeds,
and, being mudd}' at bottom, is not frequented by
those shoals of roach the kingfisher delights to watch.
So that the best places to look for tliis bird are on
the streams which feed the mere (especially just
where they enter it, for there the fish often assemble)
and the streams that issue forth, not far from the
main water.

This old hatch — it is so old and rotten that it is
a little dangerous to cross it — is situate in the latter
position, on the effluent, and is almost hidden among
trees and bushes. ScA^eral hedges there meet, and
form a small cover, in the midst of which flows the
dark brook ; but do not go near carelesslj", for
the bank is undermined b}' the water itself and b^' the
water-rats, while the real edge is concealed b}- long
coarse grasses. These water rats are for ever endan-
gering the bay : they bore their holes at the side
through the bank from above and emerge below the "
hatch. Out of one such hole the water is now rush-
ing, and if it is not soon stopped will wear away the
soil and escape in such quantities as to lower the
level behind the hatch. These little beaver-like
creatures are not, therefore, welcome near hatches
and dams.

If you approach the cover quietl}' and step over
the decayed pole that has been placed to close a gap,
by care full}' parting the bushes the kingfisher may be
seen in his favorite position. The old pole must not be
pressed in getting over it, or the willow ' bonds ' or
w'ithes with which it is fastened to a tree each side of
the gap will creak, and the pole itself may crack, and
so alarm the bird. The kingfisher perches on the

Carrying Fish. 307

narrow rail that crosses the hatch about two feet
above the water.

Another perch to which he removes now and then
is formed b,y a branch, dead and leafless, which pro-
jects across a corner of the bubbling pool below.
He prefers a rail or a dead branch, because it gives
him a clearer view and better facilities for diving and
snatching up his prey as it swims underneath him.
His azure back and wings and ruddy breast are not
equalled in beauty of color by any bird native to this
country. The long pointed beak looks half as long
as the whole bird : his shape is somewhat wedge -
like, enlarging gradually from the point of the beak
backwards. The cock bird has the brightest tints.

In this pool scooped out b}' the falling water sTvam
roach, perch, and sticklebacks, and sometimes a jack ;
but the jack usually abides near the edge out of the
swirl. Roach are here the kingfisher's most common
prey. He chooses those about four inches long by
preference, and ' daps ' on them the moment they
come near enough to the surface. But he will occa-
sionally land a much larger fish, perhaps almost twice
the size, and will carry it to some distance, being re-
markabl}' powerful on the wing for so small a bird.
The fish is held across the beak, but in f^y'mg it some-
times seems to be held almost vertically ; and if that
is reall}' the case, and not an illusion caused b^' the
swiftness of the flight, the bird must cany its head
then a little on one side. If he is only fishing for his
own eating, he does not carr}' his prey farther than
a clear place on the bank. A terrace made by the
runs of the water-rat is a common table for him, or
the path leading to the hatch where it is worn smooth

308 Where is the Nest?

and bare hy footsteps. But he prefers to devour
his fish either close to the water or in a somewhat
open place, and not too near bushes ; because while
thus on the ground he is not safe. When feeding his
3'oung he will earr}^ a fish apparently as long as him-
self a considerable distance.

One summer I went several days in succession to
a hedge two fields distant from the nearest brook, and
hid in the mound with a gun. I had not been there
long before a kingfisher flew past, keeping just clear
of the hedge, but low down and close under the
boughs of the trees, and going in a direction which
would not lead to a brook or pond. This seemed
curious ; but presently he came back again, uttering
the long whistle which is his peculiar note. About an
hour, perhaps less, elapsed when he returned again,
this time carr3-ing something in his beak that gleamed
white and silvery in the sun — a fish. The next day
it was the same, and the next. The kingfisher, or
rather two of them, went continually to and fro,
and it was astonishing what a number of fish they
took. Never more than an hour, often less, elapsed
without one or other going by. The fish varied
much in size, sometimes being very small.

They had a nest, of course, somewhere ; but, being
under the idea that they always built near brooks or
in the high banks often seen at the back of ponds, it
was diflScult for me to imagine where the nest could
be. To all appearance they flew straight through a
small opening in another hedge, at the corner of the
two in fact, about two hundred yards distant. Pres-
entl}' it occurred to me that this might be an illusion,
that the birds did not really pass through the hedge,
but had a nest somewhere in that corner.

Kiyigfishers' Haunts. 309

Just in the veiy angle was an old disused sawpit,
formed by enlarging the ditch, and made some years
before for the temporary convenience of sawing up a
few heav}' ' sticks ' of timber that were thrown there-
abouts. The sawpit, to prevent accidents to cattle,
was roughly covered over with slabs of wood, which
practically roofed it in, and of course darkened the
interior. It was in the sawpit that the kingfishers
had their nest in what appeared to be a hole partl}^
excavated by a rabbit. The distance from the hatch
and brook was about four hundred 3-ards, so that the
parent birds had to carry the fish they captured nearly
a quarter of a mile. The sawpit, too, was close
to a lane used a good deal, though sheltered b}' a
thick hedge from the observation of those who
passed.

In another case I knew of, the kingfishers built in
a mound overhanging a small stagnant and muddy
pond, in which there were no fish, and which was
within twent}' paces of a farmhouse. The house was
situate on a hill about three hundred yards from the
nearest running stream. This little pond was full in
wet weather onl3', and was constantly used by the
horses, the cattle in the field that came almost up to
the door, and by the tame ducks. Beside the pond
was a wood pile, and persons were constantly passing
it to and fro. Yet the kingfishers built there and
reared their 3'oung ; and this not only for one season,
but for several years in succession. The}- had to
bring all the fish the^' captured up from the brook,
over the garden, and to pass close to the house.
Why they should choose such a place is not easily
explained, seeing that so many apparently more suit-

310 Shooting Kingfishers.

able localities were open to them along the course of
the stream.

One summer I found a family of four 3'oung king-
fishers perched in a row on a dead branch crossing
a brook which ran for some distance beside a double-
mound hedge. There was a hatch just there too,
forcing the water into two ponds, one each side of the
mound. The brook had worn itself a deep channel,
and so required a hatch to bring it up to a level
convenient for cattle. I had known for some time
that there was a nest in that mound from the con-
tinued presence of the two old birds ; but could not
find it. But when the young could fly a little they
appeared on this branch projecting almost over the
falling water, and there they took up their station
day after day. Ever}' now and then the parents came
with small fish, which they caught farther down the
brook, for just in that place there were only a few
j)erch and perhaps a tench or two. The colors are
much less brilhant on the 3'oung birds, and they do
not obtain the deep rich hues of their parents until
the following spring. I have shot many 3'Oung birds
in the winter ; they are b}' that time much improved
in color, but ma}' be distinguished without ditliculty
from the full-grown bird.

Though so swift, the kingfisher is comparatively
easy to shoot, because he flies as straight as an
arrow ; and if you can get clear of bushes or willow-
pollards he may be dropped without trouble. When
disturbed the kingfisher almost invariably flies off in
one favorite direction ; and this habit has often proved
fatal to him, because the sportsman knows exactly
which way to look, and carries his gun prepared.

Coot. 311

Wherever the kingfisher's haunt may be, he will be
found upon observation to leave it nearly- alwa3's in
the same direction day after day. He is, indeed, a
bird with fixed habits, though apparently wandering
aimlessly along the streams. I soon found it possible
to predict beforehand in which haunt a kingfisher
would be discovered at any time.

By noting the places frequented by these birds
you know where the shoals of small fish lie, and may
supply 3^ourself with bait for larger fish. Often one
of those great hawthorn bushes that hang over a
brook is a favorite spot. The roots of trees and
bushes loosen the soil, and deeper holes are often
found under them than elsewhere, to which the fish
resort. These hawthorn bushes, though thick and
impenetrable above, are more open below just over
the water ; and there the kingfisher perches, and has
also the advantage of being completely hidden from
observation : if he only remained still in such places
he w^ould escape notice altogether. When passing
such a bush on the qui vice for snipe, how man}""
times have I seen a brilliant streak of azure shoot out
from the lower branches and watched a kingfisher
skim across the meadow, rising with a piping whistle
over the distant hedge ! Near mill^Donds is a favorite
place with these birds.

To that hatch which stands on the effluent brook
not far from the mere a coot or two comes now and
then at night or in the early morning. These birds,
being accused of devouring the young fry, are killed
whenever they are met, and their eggs taken in order
to prevent their increase ; that is, of course, where
the water is carefully preserved. Here they are not

312 Cu7ini7ig of the 3IoorJien.

so persistently hunted, I have seen coots, and moor-
hens too, venture some distance up the dark arch
of a culvert. Moorhens are fond of bridges and
frequenth' feed under them. When alarmed, after
diving, the moorhen does not always come right
up to the surface, but merel}' protrudes its head to
breathe.

One day I startled a moorhen in a shallow pond ;
instantly the bird dived, and I watched to see where
it would come up, knowing that the moorhen cannot
stay long under water, while there chanced to be
scarcely any bushes or cover round the edge. After
waiting some time, and wondering what had become
of the bird, I fancied I saw some duckweed slightly
agitated. Looking more carefully, it seemed as if
there was something very small moving now and then
just there — the spot was not more than fifteen yards
distant. It was as if the beak of a bird, the body
and most of the head quite hidden and under water,
were picking or feeding among the duckweed. This
continued for some few minutes, when I shot at the
spot, and immediately a moorhen rose to the surface.
As the pond was very shallow the bird must have
stood on the bottom, and so resumed its feeding with
the beak just above the surface.

The Birds Bathing-Place. 313

CHAPTER XIX.

COUKSE OF THE BROOK THE BIRDS' BATHING PLACE

ROACH JACK ON THEIR JOURNEYS — THE STICKLE-
BACK'S NEST WOODCOCK THE LAKE HERONS

MUSSELS REIGN OF TERROR IN THE LAKE.

A PLACE where the bank of the brook has been dug
away so as to form a sloping approach to the water
in order that cattle may drink without difficulty is
much visited by birds in summer. Some cartloads of
small stones originall}' thrown down to make a firm
floor to the drinking-place have in process of time
become worn into sand, which the rain has washed
into the water. This has helped to form a more
than usually sandy bottom to the water just there.
Then a bank of mud, or little eyot in the centre of
the stream, thickly overgTown with flags, divides the
current in two, and the swiftest section passes b\' the
drinking-place and brings with it more sand washed
out from the mud ; so that just at the edge there is
a floor of fine sand covered with water, which six
inches from shore is hardly an inch deep. This is
just the bathing-place in which birds delight, and
here they come, accordingly, all the summer through,
day after da3^

Sparrows, starlings, finches (including the beauti-
ful goldfinches) , blackbirds, and so on, are constantly

314 Favorite Haunts of Fish.

to and fro. Often several different species are bath-
ing together. The wagtails, of course, are there.
The wagtail wades into the water and stands there.
Sometimes he has the appearance of scraping the
bottom with his feet, as if to find food. Blaekl)irds
are especiall}- fond of this spot, and ma}' be seen
coming to it from the adjacent hedges. They like
water, and frequently feed near it ; a blackbird may
often be found under the great hawthorn bushes which
overhang the stream. Hawks may be seen occa-
sionally following the course of the brook or perched
on the trees that grow near ; they are doubtless
aware of the partiality for water shown by so many
birds.

The fish have their own favorite places, as the birds
in the hedge, and after leaving the hatch there are
none for some distance. Then the brook suddenly
curves and forms a loop, returning almost upon itself
something like the letter .Q. The tongue of land thus
enclosed is broad at the top, and but two or three
yards across at the bottom. There the current on
either side is for ever endeavoring to eat awa}- the
narrow neck, and forms two deep pools. Some few
piles have been driven in on one side to check the
process of disintegration, and a willow-tree overhangs
the pool there. By lying on the grass and quietly
looking over the brink, the roach may be seen swim-
ming in the deeper part, and where it shallows up
stream is a perch waiting for what may come down.
Where the water runs slowlj'^ on account of a little
bay, there in semi-darkness under the banks on the
mud are a few tench.

There are several jacks not far off; but, though

Jack. 315

they prey on the roach, it is noticeable that, unless
driven by some one passing by, they rarcl}^ go into
these deep holes. The jack lies in shallow water
and keeps close to the shore under shelter of the flags,
or concealed behind the weeds. It is as if he under-
stood that exQY-y now and then the shoal of roach will
pass round the curve — going from one pool to the
other — when they have to swim through the shal-
lower water. Sometimes a solitary fish will shift
quarters like this, and must go h\ the jack lying in
ambush.

At the top of the tongue of land (which is planted
with withy) another brook joins the first : this brook
is very deep, and all but stagnant. In the quiet
back-water here — close to and yet out of the swifter
stream — is another haunt of the jack.

If alarmed, he does not swim straight up or down
the centre of the current, but darts half-a-dozen
3'ards in a slanting direction across the stream and
hides under another floating weed. Then if started
afresh, he makes another zig-zag, and conceals him-
self once more. At first he remains till you could
touch him, if you tried, with a long stick ; but at
every move he grows more suspicious, till at last as
you approach he is ofl' immediately.

Jacks lie a great deal in the still deep ponds that
open off the brook or are connected with it by a deep
ditch ; they have been known to find their way up to
a pond from the brook through a subterranean pipe
which supplied it with water. Those that remain in
the ponds are usually much larger than those found
in the stream: these are often small — say, a pound
to two pounds in weight. In the spawning season,

316 The Stickleback's Nest.

however, they come out from the ponds and go up
the brook in pairs or trios. They keep close together
side by side — the largest in the centre, when there
are three. The brook at that time seems full of
jacks ; and to any one who has been accustomed to
stroll along it, it is surprising where they all come
from.

Although the jacks lie in the quiet ponds most of
the time j-et some of them travel about a great deal,
especiall}' the smaller ones ranging from one to two
pounds. These will leap a ba}' or dam if it interrupts
their vo^'aging down the stream. I have seen a
young jack, about a foot long, leap over a bay, and
fall three or four feet on to the ston^^ floor below, the
stones scarcely covered with water. The jack shot
himself perhaps two feet, and fell on his side on the
stones ; there he lay quiet a minute or so, and then
gave abound up, and, lighting in the current, went
down with it. A small jack like this will sometimes
go out into the irrigated meadows, following the
water-carriers for a long distance.

In quiet, sheltered places, where the water is clear
but does not run too swiftl3^ the ' minnie,' as the
stickleback is locally called, makes its nest beside the
bank. A small hole in the sand is excavated, and in
this are laid a number of tiny fibres such as are
carried along by the stream, resembling a miniature
fagot. On these fibres the ova are deposited, and
they are then either purposely partly covered with
sand by the minnie, or else the particles that are
brought down by the current gather over the bundle
of fibres and conceal it, excepting "one small spot.
There several of the slender roots seem to slightly

Millers Thumbs. 317

project, and they are kept clear of mud or sand so as
to answer the purpose of a doorway. I have watched
these operations many times, but never saw the
minnie attempt to enter the nest ; indeed, he could
not have done so, the opening not being large
enough.

When the nest has reached the stage of comple-
tion 'it is easy to discover, because the stickleback
keeps watch before it, and at that season his breast
is of a bright crimson hue. He guards the nest with
the greatest care, and if he is tempted away for a
minute by some morsel of food he is back again
immediately. If a tinj' twig or fibre comes along and
threatens to catch against the nest, he removes it in
liis mouth, carrying it out into the stream that it may
be swept away. He also removes the sand when-
ever it begins to accumulate OA^er much. It would
seem as if a current of fresh water w^ere essential to
the ova, and that that is whj' the opening of the nest
is so care full}' kept from becoming choked up. After
a while the fry come forth — the most minute creatures
imaginable, mere lines about half the length of the
finger-nail. They play round the opening, and will
retreat within if alarmed.

Where the brook passes under a bridge of some
size the current divides to go through several small
arches. There is here some fall, and the stream is
swift and bright, chafing round and bubbjing over
stones. Here the ' miller's thumbs' are numerous —
a bottom fish growing to about four inches in length,
and with a head enormously broad and large in pro-
portion to its body. They rarely rise from the mud
or sand ; they hide behind stones, their heads buried

318 Driving Fish hy Mud.

in the sand, but their tails in sight. Eveiy now and
then the}' change positions, swimming swiftly over
the bottom to another spot. Their voracit}^ is ver^-
great, and they often disappoint the angler b}- tak-
ing his bait. The cottage people are said to eat
them.

The ' stwun loach ' — stone loach, as the lads call
it — hides also behind and under stones, and ma^' be
caught by hand. These loach are apparently capri-
cious in their habits ; certain spots abound with
them, in others you ma}' search the stream in vain
for a long distance. So, too, with the gudgeon : I
noticed in one brook I frequently passed that they
never came up beyond one particular bend, though
there was no apparent difference in the soil or in the
stream itself. In the brook the jack do not seem to
care much about them ; but in the lake above there
are no gudgeon, and there a gudgeon is a fatal bait.
Nothing is so certain to take ; the gudgeon will
tempt the pike there when an ordinary roach may be
displayed before him without the slightest effect.

A flood which brings down a large quantity of sus-
pended mud and sand discoloring the water attracts
the fish : they are looking for food. But too much
mud compels them to shift their quarters. This is
well known to those who net the stream. They
stretch the net across the brook a few yards below a
bridge or short culvert — places much haunted by
fish. Then the bottom of the stream above the cul-
vei-t is thoroughly stirred up with a pole till the
water is thick with mud, and this, passing through
the culvert (where the j^ole cannot be used and the
fish would otherwise be safe), forces them to de-

Reed Fens. 319

scene! the stream and enter the net. Proliablj' they
attempt to swim up sti-eam first, but are deterred by
the pole thrust under the water, and then go down.
It is said that even eels, who like mud, will move if
the volume of mud sent through is thick enough and
continued sufficientl}- long.

The fact that a little stirring of the bottom at-
tracts fish is made use of along the Thames to
attract bait for those night-lines wjiich are the detes-
tation of the true angler. The bait catcher has a
long pole, at the end of which are iron teeth like a
rake. With this he rakes up the mud, waits a few
seconds, and then casts a net, which generally
brings some minnows or other small fish to shore.
These fish are then placed in a bucket, and finally
go on the night-lines.

The ditches as thej^ open on the brook are the
favorite resorts of all aquatic life, and there most of
the insects, beetles, &c., that live in the water ma}^
be discovered. They form, too, one of the last re-
sorts of the reeds ; these beautiful plants have been
much diminished in quantity by the progress of
agriculture. One or two great mounds by the brook
can show a small bed still, and here and there a
group grows at the mouth of these deep ditches, on
the little delta formed of the sand, mud, and decay-
ing twigs brought down. I have cut them fifteen
feet in length. Some people, attracted by the beaut}'
of the feather}^ heads of these reeds, come a con-
siderable distance to get them. I have made pens
of them : it is possible to write with such pens, and
they are softer than quills, but on account of that
softness quickly w^ear out.

320 Difference in Ponds.

A woodcock may occasionalh' be flushed from
such a ditch in winter. Woodcocks are fond of
those ditches down which there always trickles a tiny
thread of water — hardly so much as would be
understood by the term streamlet — coming from a
little spring which even in severe frosts is never
frozen. Even when the running brook is frozen
such little springs are free of ice, and so, too, is the
streamlet for some distance.

From the bed of the brook proper the reeds are
gone — they have taken refuge in nooks and corners.
This is probably accounted for by the periodical
cleaning out of the brook — not annually, but every
now and then, in order to prevent the flooding which
would be caused by the accumulation of mud and
sand. The roots of the flags seem to withstand this
rude treatment ; but many other water plants cannot,
and are consequently only found in places which
have not been disturbed for many years.

There is as much difi'erence in ponds as in hedges,
so far as inhabitants are concerned. Many fields
and hedges seem comparatively deserted, while
others are full of birds ; and so of several ponds
which do not apparentl}" vary much — one is a favor-
ite haunt of fish, and another has not got a single
fisli in it. One pond particularly^ used to attract my
attention, because it seemed devoid of any kind of
life : not even a stickleback could be found in it,
though they will live in the smallest ditches, and
this pond was fed by a brook in which there were
fish. Not even a newt lived in it — it was a minia-
ture Dead Sea. Another pond was remarkable for
innumerable water snails. When the wind blew

Herons. 321

hard the}' sometimes lined the lee-shore to which
the}" had drifted.

The herons are at the same time the largest and
most regular visitors to the mere out of which the
brook flows. One or more may generally be found
there at some time of the da^^ all the 3-ear round ; but
there is a remarkable diminution in their numbers
during the nesting season. The nearest heronry must
be about thirty miles distant, which probably explains
their absence at that time. It also happens that just
before the summer begins the mere is usuall}- at its
greatest height ; the water is deep almost ever3'where,
and there are fewer places where the herons could
fish with success.

They fl}^ at a great height in the air, and a single
stroke of the huge wings seems to propel the bird a
long distance ; so that though at first sight they ap-
pear to move very slowly, the eye being deceived by
the slow stroke of the wings, they reall}' go at a good
pace. They do not seem to have any regular hours
of visiting the lake — though more seem to arrive in
the afternoon — but they have distinct lines of flight
along which they may be expected to come. In
winter, however, ih.Qj show more regularity, going
down from the lake to the water-meadows in the
evening, and returning in the early morning — that is,
supposing the lake to be open and free from ice. If
the shores are frozen a heron or two may be found in
the water-meadows all day.

In the autumn, after a dry summer, is the best
time to watch them. The water is then low ; numer-
ous small islands appear, and long narrow sandbanks
run out fifty or sixt}' yards with shoals on either side.

322 Hero7i-s1iooting.

After a very diy season the level of the water is so
much reduced that in the broadest (and shallowest)
part the actual strand where the water begins is a
hundred 3'ards or more from the nearest hedge. This
is just what the heron likes, because no one can ap-
proach him over that flat expanse of dried mud with-
out being immediatel}' detected. I have seen as many
as eight herons standing together in a row on one
such narrow sandbank in the daytime, in regular order
like soldiers : there were six more on adjacent islands.
They were not feeding — simplj' standing motionless.
As soon as it grew dark they dispersed, and ventured
then down the lake to those places near which foot-
paths passed.

But although the night seems the heron's principal
feeding time, he frequently fishes in the day. Gen-
erally, his long neck enables him to see danger, but
not always. Several times I have come right on a
heron, when the banks of the brook were high and the
bushes thick, before he has seen me, so as to be for
the moment within five yards. His clumsy terror is
quite ludicrous : try how he will he cannot fly fast at
starting ; he requires fifty yards to get properly under
way.

What a contrast with the swift snipe, that darts
oflT at thirty miles an hour from under your feet !
The long hanging legs, the stretched-out neck, the
wide wings and body, seem to offer a mark which no
one could possibly miss : yet, with an ordinary gun
and snipe shot, I have had a heron get awa^' safely
like this more than once. You can hear the shot
rattle up against him, and he utters a strange,
harsh, screeching ' quaack,' and works his wings

A Tough Subject. 323

in mortal fright, but presently gets half way up to
the clouds and sails away in calm security. His
neck then seems to drop down in a bend, the head
being brought back as he settles to his flight, so
that the countrj' people say the heron often carries
a snake.

The mark he ofiers to shot is much less than
would be supposed ; he is all length and no breadth ;
the body is very much smaller than it looks. But if
you can stalk him in the brook till within thirty or
forty yards, and can draw ' a bead' on his head as
he lifts it up every now and then to glance over the
banks, then you have him easily ; a verj' small knock
in the head being sufticient to stop him.

The tenacity of life exhibited by the heron is some-
thing wonderful : though shot in the head, and hung
up as dead, a heron will sometimes raise his neck
several hours afterwards. To wring the neck is im-
possible — it is like leather or a strong spiral spring :
3'ou cannot break it, so that the onl}' way to put the
creature out of pain is to cut the artery- ; and even
then there are signs of muscular contraction for some
time. A laborer once asked me for a heron that I
had shot ; I gave it to him, and he cooked it. He
said he boiled it eight hours, and that it was not so
yQxy fishy ! But even he could not manage the neck
part.

This bird must have a wonderful power of sight
to catch its prey at night, and out of some depth of
water. In severe winter weather, when the lake is
frozen, herons evidently suffer much. Most of them
leave, probably for the rivers which do not freeze till
the last ; but one or two linger about the water-mead-

324 Fresh-water Mussels.

ows till they seem to despair of catching an}' thing,
and will alight in the centre of a large pasture field
where there is no water, and stand there for hours
disconsolate. I suspect that the herons in winter
time that come to the ponds do so for the fish which
lie at the bottom on the mud packed close together,
that is, when the water is not deep. It is said that
when ice protects the fish herons eat the frogs in
the water-meadows, but can scarcel}' find many ;
for though I have been over the water-meadows
da}^ after day for snipe, I seldom saw a frog about
them here.

When the level of the mere, after a peculiarly dry
season, is ver}' low, is also a good time to observe
the habits of many other creatures. There are alwa3's
one or more crows about the neighborhood of the
lake ; but at such times a dozen or so may be seen
busily at work along the shore. They prey on the
mussels, of which there are great numbers in the lake.
An}- one passing b}' the water when it is so shallow
can hardly fail to notice long narrow grooves in the
sand of the bottom. These grooves begin near the
edge — perhaps within a foot of it — and then run out
into the deeper part. By following these' with the
e^'e, the mussel ma}' often be seen in a foot or two of
water — sometimes open, but more generally closed.
The groove in the sand is caused by the keel of the
shell as the creature moves.

There are hundreds of these tracks ; the majority'
appear to run from shallow to deep water, but there
are others crossing and showing where the mussel has
travelled. One may occasionally be seen in the act
of movina: itself, and makino; the groove in the sand.

Reign of Terror in the Lake. 325

But the}' seem as a rule to move most at night, and
to approach the shore closest in the darkness. In the
deep water they are safe ; but near the edge the
crows pounce on them and ma^' be seen peering about
almost all day long.

Besides those that are eaten on the shore, irumbers
of mussels are carried up on the rising ground where
the turf is short and the earth hard. Until stepped
on and broken, the two halves of the shell are usually
complete, and generally still attached, sliowing that
the crow has split the shell open skilfully. They
range from two or three to nine inches in length.
The largest are much less common ; those of five or
six inches are numerous. Some of the old-fashioned
housewives use a nine-inch mussel-shell, well cleaned,
as a ladle for their sugar jars.

Now and then, at long intervals, an exceptionally
drj' season so lowers the level of the mere that all
the shallower parts become land, and are even pass-
able on foot, though in places quicksands and deep
fine mud must be carefully avoided. The fish that
previously could enjoy a swim of some three-quarters
of a mile are then forced to retire to one deep hole
only a few acres in extent. Now commences a reign
of terror, of which it is difficult to convey an ade-
quate idea.

These waters have not been netted for years, and
consequently both pike and perch have increased to
an extraordinary degree, and many of them have at-
tained huge proportions. Pike of six pounds are
_ commonly caught ; eight, ten, twelve, and fourteen
pound fish have often been landed. There was a tra-
dition of a pike that weighed a quarter -of a hundred-

326 Panic-stricken Fish.

weight, but one day the tradition was put into the
shade b^^ the capture of a pike that scaled a little
over thirty pounds. There are supposed to be sev-
eral more such monsters of the deep, since every now
and then some laborer passing by on a sunny day,
when jack approach the shore and bask near the sur-
face, declares that he has seen one as big as a man's
leg. But about the vast number of ordinary-sized
jack there can be no doubt at all ; since any one may
see them who will stroll by the water's edge on a
bright warm day, taking care to walk slowl}' and not
to jar the ground or let his shadow fall on the water
before he can glance round the willows and bushes.
Jack may then be seen basking by the weeds.

When an exceptionally long continuance of dry
weather forces all the fish to retire to the few acres of
water that remain, then these voracious brutes do as
the}' please with the other fish, and the roach espe-
cially suff'er. Every two or three minutes the fry may
be seen leaping into the air in the eflbrt to escape,
twent}^ or thirt}^ at a time, and falling with a splash.
The rush of hundreds and hundreds of roach causes
a wave upon the surface which shows the course they
take. This wave never ceases : as soon as it sinks
here it rises yonder, and so on through the twent}^-
four hours, day and night.

The miserable fish, flying for their lives, speed
towards the shallow water, and often, unable to stop
themselves, are carried by their impetus out on the
mud and lie there on the laud for a few seconds till
the}'^ leap back again. Even the jack will sometimes
run himself aground in the eagerness of his pursuit.
Looking over the pool, the splash of the falling fish

Sjyanming Time. 327

as the}' descend after the leap into the air may be
heard in several directions at once, and the glint of
their silver}' sides in the sunshine is at the same time
visible. At night it is clear the same thing is going
forward, for the splashing continues, though the wave
raised bj- the panic-stricken crowds cannot be distin-
guished in the darkness.

It is curious to notice how the solitary disposition
of the jack shoAvs itself almost as soon as he comes
to life. "\A^hile the fty of most other fish swim in
shoals, sometimes in countless numbers, the tin}' jack,
hardly so long as one's little finger, lurks all alone
behind a stone which forms a miniature harbor. On a
warm day almost every such place has its youthful
pirate. Notwithstanding the terror of the roach
when pursued, they will play about apparently with-
out the sliglitest fear when the pike is basking in the
sun with his back all but on a level with the surface
— that is, when the lake is at its ordinary height.
It is as if they knew their tyrant was enjoying his
siesta.

These roach literally swarm. At their spawning
time that part of the lake the shore of which is stony
is positively black with them. For a distance of some
hundred and fifty yards the water for seven or eight
feet from shore is simply a moving mass of roach.
They crowd up against the stones, get underneath
them and behind them, enter every little creek and
interstice, and are so jammed by their own numbers
that they may easily be caught by hand. In their
anxiety to secure a place they crush against each
other and splash up the water. This impulse only
lasts a day or two in its full vigor, when the multi-
tude gradually retires into deeper water.

328 Felonious Rats.

When thus spawning the roach are preyed on by
rats — not the water rat, but the house or drain rat.
There are always a few of these about the lake, and
they grow to an enormous size. They destroy the
roach in great numbers. I have seen the sand strewn
with dead fish opposite and leading up to their holes ;
for they catch and kill many more than the}" can eat,
or even have time to carry awa}'. I have shot at
these great rascals when they have been swimming
fifty yards from shore, and I strongl}- suspect them
of visiting the nests of moor-hens and other waterfowl
with felonious purposes. They catch fish at any time
they see a chance, but are most destructive during
the spawning season, because then the roach come
within reach. Such rats, too, haunt the ditches and
mounds, and are as dangerous to all kinds of game
as any weasel, crow, or hawk.

Tench lie in the deep muddy holes. With the ex-
ception of the tench, the greater numlDer of the fish
in this mere haunt the sand}' and stony shores.
When the lake is full there are broad stretches of
water which are shallow and where the bottom is
mud. You ma}^ look here in vain for fish : of course
there are some ; but as you ghde over noiselessl}- in
a punt, gazing down into the water as you diift be-
fore the gentle summer breeze, you will not see any
of those shoals that frequent the other shores where
the bottom is clearer. Other favorite places are
where the brooks run in and where there are sudden
shallows in the midst of deep water. The contour
and character of the bottom seem to affect the habits
of fish to a large extent ; consequently those who
are aware of the form of the bottom are usually
much more successful as fishermen.

Sand'pipers. 329

CHAPTER XX.-

^yILDFOWL OF THE LAKE .SEA BIKDS DRIFT WOOD

FORCES OF NATURE AT WORK WAVES — EVAP-
ORATION AN EAOLE FROST AND SNOW EF-
FECT ON BIRDS AND ANIMALS WATER-MEAD-
OWS SHOOTING STARS PHOSPHORESCENCE

WATERSPOUT NOISES *■ IN THE AIR.'

The ' summer snipe,' or sandpiper, comes to the
lake regularly year after year, and remains during
the warm months. About a dozen visit the shallow
sandy reaches running along the edge of the water,
when disturbed flying olf just above the surface with
a plaintive piping cry. They describe a semicircle,
and come back to the shore a hundred 3'ards farther
on ; and will do this as many times as you like to
put them up. Sometimes the}' feed in little parties
of two or three : sometimes alone. No other place for
some distance is visited by the sandpiper : none of
the ponds or brooks ; onl}' the lake.

In summer but a fevv^ species of birds remain on
this piece of water. Only two or three wild ducks
stay to breed : their nests are not found on the mere
itself, but in the ponds adjacent. One small pond
fed by the lake and communicating with it — dug
where the muddy shore would otherwise prevent
cattle approaching the shallow water — a quiet spot

330 Tlie Coot's Lack of Foresight.

almost surrounded b}' bushes, is a favorite nesting-
place. The brooks that run in are oceasionall}' used
by ducks in the same way, and one of the large
ditches which is full of flags and rushes and well
sheltered is now and then selected. But the ducks
do not breed in any number, though they used to do
so within living memory.

The coots cannot be overlooked in spring ; they
chase each other to and fro over the surface in the
livehest manner, and their nests are common. Moor-
hens, of course, are here in numbers. Why is it
that they never seem to learn wisdom in placing
their nests? Whether in the lake, in the ponds, or
brooks, they exhibit the same lack of foresight as to
changes of level in the water ; so that frequently
their nests are quite drowned out. Occasionall}' in
the brooks the nest is floated bodily down the stream
by a sudden rise. These mishaps they might easily
avoid b}' placing them a little higher up the bank.

In the lake there are several acres of withy bushes
which when the water is low are on dry land, but in
spring and early summer stand five or six feet deep.
This is a favorite nesting-place with the coots : and
they show the same neglect of the teachings of expe-
rience ; for their nests are placed almost on the
water, and if it rises, as it often does, they are
flooded.

It is said that otters used to come to the mere
man}" years ago ; but they have never done so lately,
though stories of their having been seen are frequent.
One summer the story was so positive and so often
repeated that I made a thorough search, and found
that it originated in the motions of a large diving

A Vast Flock of Wildfowl. 331

bird. This bird swam under water with wonderful
rapidity, and often close to the surface, so that it
raised a wave and could be traced by it. This was
the supposed otter. The bird was afterwards shot,
but its exact species does not seem to have been
satisfactorily ascertained. Several kinds of divers,
however, have without doubt been killed. Grebes
are often shot.

Occasionalh' sea-birds come — particularly a spe-
cies locally called the ' sea-swallow,' which fre-
quently appears after rough winds and remains
flying about over the water for a week or more.
Six or eight of these are sometimes seen at once.
The common gull comes at irregular intervals, gene-
rally' in the winter or spring : it is said to foretell
rough weather. Occasionalh' a gull will stay some
time, and I have seen them also in the water-
meadows. Considering the distance from the sea,
the gull cannot- be called an uncommon bird here.

Towards winter the wild ducks return ; and during
all the cold months a flock of them, varying in
number, remains. They are careful to swim during
the day in the centre of the ver}' widest part of the
lake, far out of gunshot ; at night they land, or feed
along the shore. Teal, and sometimes widgeon
also, visit the place. Once now and then wildfowl
come in countless numbers : it is said to be when
they are driven south by severe weather. On one
occasion I saw the lake Uterally black — they almost
covered it for a length of half a mile and a breadth
of about a quarter. It was a sight not to be quickly
forgotten ; and the noise of their wings as vast jjar-
ties every now and then rose and wheeled around

332 Wild JJuck and Snipe.

was something astonishing. They only stayed a few
days.

How man}' times I have endeavored to trace the
V said to be formed b}' duck while flying, and failed
to detect it ! Thej' fl}', it is true, in some sort of
order, but those that come to the mere here travel
rather in a row, or line, slanting forwards, something
like what military men call in echelon. The teal seem
much bolder than the wild duck : they are often shot
as they rise out of the brooks ; but the ducks very
rarely go to the brooks at all, and can still more
rarely be approached when the}' do. They swim in
the water-carriers in the great irrigated meadows, but
are careful to remain far out of range ; so that the
only way to shoot them b}' day is for two or more
sportsmen to post themselves behind the hedges in
different places while a third drives them up.

The first snipes are seen generally in the arable
lands, afterwards round the lake — the muddy shores
by choice — and finally in the brooks. As the winter
advances they seem to quit the lake in great part
and go down to the brooks. A streamlet that runs
through a peat}' field is a favorite spot. The little
jack-snipe frequent the water-carriers in the irrigated
meadows and the wet furrows. When the lake is
frozen over the wild duck stand on the ice in the
daytime for hours together, leaving the marks of
their feet on it.

In walking along the shore, lines of drift may be
noticed, marking the height to which the waves
driven by the wind have carried the floating twigs,
weeds, and leaves : just as along the sea the beach
is formed into terraces by the changing height of

Action of Waves. 333

the tides. The shallower parts of the lake are so
thickly grown in snnimer with aquatic weeds that
a boat can onl^- he forced through them with the
utmost difficulty. Some of these grow in as much
as eight or even ten feet of water. Nearer the shore,
where it is marshy, the mare's-tail flourishes over
some acres : there is often a slight marshy odor here,
which increases as the foot presses the yielding
mud.

When the water is low in autumn these are mown,
and, with the aquatic grasses at the edge and the
rushes, made into the roughest kind of hay imagin-
able. The coarser parts are used as litter ; the best
is mixed with fodder and eaten by cattle. Many
wagon loads are thus taken away, but as many
more remain ; and in walking over the spongy ground
a smart ' pop ' is continually heard : it is caused by
the sudden compression of air under the foot in the
mare's- tails lying about ; for their stems are hollow,
and have knots at regular intervals.

After a continuance of the wind in 07ie quarter
for a few days — south or south-west — the opposite
shores are lined with such weeds carried across, to-
gether with great quantities of dead branches fallen
from the trees and willows. So that on a small scale
the same thing happens as with the drift wood of
the ocean ; and, indeed, b}' studying the action of
natural forces as exhibited in our own pools and
brooks, it becomes much easier to comprehend the
gigantic operations b}^ which the surface of the earth
is altered.

For instance, the north-eastern edge of the water
is continually encroaching on the land, eating away

334 ' The Brave Old Oak:

the sandy soil, showing that the prevalent winds are
south and west. The waves, thrown against the
shore with the force they have acquired in rolling six
or seven hundred yards, wash away the earth and
undermine the bank, forming a miniature chff or
precipice, the face of w^hich is always concave, pro-
jecting a little at the foot and also at the top. So
much is this the case that an unwary person walk-
ing too near the edge may feel the sward suddenly
yield and find it necessary to scramble off before
a few hundred-weights of earth subside into the
water.

In this process the loamy part of the earth is dis-
sipated, or rather held in suspension, while the small
stones and ultimately the heavier sand fall to the
bottom and form the sand}- floor preferred hy the fish.
The loam discolors the water during a storm for
several yards out to sea, so to say ; so that in a boat
passing by you know by the hue of the weaves when
you are approaching the dangers of the chffs. This
continuous eating away of the earth proceeds so fast
that an old hollow oak tree now stands — at what
may be called the high tide of summer — so far from
the strand that a boat ma^' pass between.

Like a wooden island the old oak rears itself up
in the midst ; the waves break against it, and when
there is but a ripple the sunlight glancing on the
water is reflected back, and plays upon the rugged
trunk, illuminating it with a moving design as the
wavelets roll in. The w^ater is so shallow at the edge
that the shadows of the ridges of the waves follow
each other over the sandy floor. They reflect the
bright rays upon the tree-trunk where they weave

Evaporation. 835

a beautiful lace-like pattern — beneath, their own
shadows glide along the sand. That sand, too, is
arranged by the ripple in slightly curved lines.
These wave-marks, though so slight that with the
hand you may level fifty at a sweep, have j'et
sometimes proved durable enough to tell the stu-
dent after many centuries where water once has
been. Under the foundations of some of the oldest
churches — the monks loved to build near water
— the wave-mark has been found on the original
soil.

In a hollow of the old oak starlings have made
their nest and reared their 3'oung in safety for several
seasons. Thej^ seem to understand that the water
gives them protection, for their nest would not be
out of reach were the tree on land.

Just as at the seashore the wave curls over in an
arch as it comes in before dissolving in surf and
spray, so here, when a gale is blowing, these lesser
waves, as they reach the shelving strand, also curl
over. In the early morning, as the sun begins to
acquire some strength, the white mists sweep over the
surface and visibl}' melt and disappear. One hot
summer when the lake was full, and kept so artifi-
ciall}^ by the hatches and dams, I found by observation
that its level sank nearly half an inch every day.
This was the more striking because there was at the
same time an influx more than enough to repair the
loss from leakage. Now the evaporation of half an
inch of water over such a width of surface meant the
ascension into the atmosphere of many thousands of
gallons ; and thus even this insigniflcant pool might
form a cloud of some magnitude in a few days.

336 A Frosty Night.

What immense vapors may then arise from the sur-
face of the ocean !

Sometimes a winter's morning is, I tliink, ahnost
as beautiful as summer, when the ice is thick with the
sharp frost, and the sun shines in a blue sky free
from clouds. One such morning, while putting on my
skates, I happened to look up, and^ was surprised to
see a bird of unusual appearance, and large size, soar-
ing slowly over head. I immediately recognized an
eagle ; and that was the solitary occasion on which
I ever saw one here. The bird remained in sight
some time, and flnalh- left, going south-east towards
the sun.

On the afternoon of the day before the beginning
of the frost the wind gradually sinks, and the dead
leaves which have been blown to and fro settle in
corners and sheltered places. As the sun sets all is
still, and there is a sense of freshness in the air.
Then the logs of wood thrown on the fire burn
bright and clear — the surface of a burning log breaks
up into small irregular squares ; and the old folks
shake their heads and say, ' It will freeze.' As the
evening advances the hoofs of horses passing by on
the road give out a sharp sound — a sign that the
mud is rapidly hardening. The grass crunches
under foot, and in the morning the elms are white
with rime ; icicles hang from the thatch, and the
ponds are frozen.

But there is nothing so uncertain as frost : it may
thaw, and even rain, within a few hours ; and, on the
other hand, even after raining in the afternoon, it
may clear up about midnight, and next morning the
ice will be a quarter of an inch thick. Sometimes it

Hard Times for the Birds. 337

will begin in so faint-hearted a fashion that the ground
in the centre of the fields is still soft, and will ' poach'
under the hoofs of cattle, while by the hedge it is
hard. But by slow degrees the cold increases, and
ice begins to form. Again, it will freeze for a week
and 3'et j'ou will find very little ice, because all the
while there has been a rough wind, and the waves on
the lake cannot freeze while in motion. So that a
long frost is extremely difficult to foresee.

But it comes at last. Two really sharp frosts will
cause ice thick enough to bear a lad at the edge of
the lake ; three will bear a man a few yards out ;
four, and it is safe to cross : in a week the ice is be-
tween three and four inches thick, and would carry a
wagon. The character of ice varies : if some sleet
has been falling — or snow, which facilitates freezing
— it is thick in color; if the wind was still it is
dark, sleek, perfectly transparent. It varies, how-
ever, in different places, in some having a faint
yellowish hue. There are always several places
where the ice does not freeze till the last — breathing-
holes in which the ducks swdm ; and where a brook
enters it is never quite safe.

The snipes come now to the brook and water-
meadows. Following the course of the stream, field-
fares and redwings rise in numbers from every haw-
thorn bush, where they have been feeding on the
peggies. Blackbirds start out from under the bushes,
where there is perhaps a little moist earth still. The
foam where there is a sliglit fall is frozen, and the
current runs under a roof of ice ; the w^hite bubbles
travel along beneath it. The moor-hens cannot get
at the water ; neither can the herons or kingfishers.

338 ^'■Fainting, Freezing^ I^y^ng Alone.'^

The latter suffer greatly, and a fortnight of such
severe weather is fatal to them.

I recollect walking by a brook like this, and seeing
the blue plumage of a kingfisher perched on a bush.
I swung my gun round ready to shoot as soon as he
should 11}-, but the biixl sat still and took no notice of
my approach. Astonished at this — for the king-
fisher sat in such a position as easily to see any one
coming ; and these birds generally start immediately
they perceive a person — I walked swiftly up oppo-
site the bush. The bird remained on the bough. I
put out the barrel of my gun and touched his ruddy
breast with the muzzle : he fell on the ice below. He
had been frozen on his perch during the night, and
probably died more from starvation than from cold,
since it was impossible for him to get at any fish.

More than once afterwards the same winter I
found kingfishers dead on the ice under bushes, Ij'ing
on their backs with their contracted claws uppermost,
having fallen dead from roost. Possibl}^ the one
found on the branch may have been parti}- supported
by some small twig.

That winter snow afterwards fell and became a
few inches thick, drifting in places to several feet.
Then it was the turn of the other birds and animals
to feel the pain of starvation. In the meadows the
tracks of rabbits crossed and recrossed till the idea
of following their course had to be abandoned. At
first sight it seemed as if the snow had suddenly re-
vealed the presence of a legion of rabbits where pre-
viously- no one had suspected the existence of more
than a dozen. But in fact a couple of rabbits only
will so run to and fro on the snow as to cover a

The Water-meacloiv. 339

meadow with the imprints of their feet — looking
everywhere for a green blade.

Yet they only occasionally scratch away the snow,
and so get at the grass. Though the natural in-
stinct of rabbits is to dig, and though here and tliere
a place may be seen where they appear to have
searched for a favorite morsel, yet they do not seem
to acquire the sense of sj^stematically clearing snow
away. They then bark ash — and, indeed, nearly
any 3'oung sapling or tree — and visit gardens in the
night, as the hares do also. The}' creep about along
the mounds, being driven by hunger to search for
food all day instead of remaining part of the time in
the buries.

As to the hares, little more than a week of deep
snow cripples their strength : they will run but
twenty or thirty yards, and may be killed occasion-
ally with a stick or captured alive. They are even
more helpless than rabbits, because the latter still
have holes to take refuge in from danger ; but the
hare while the snow lasts is a wretched creature, and
knows not where to turn. Birds resort to the cattle-
sheds to roost ; among them the blackbirds, who
usually roost in the hedges. Birds come to the
houses and gardens in numbers because the snow is
there cleared away along the paths.

During severe weather the water-meadows are the
most frequented places. They are rarely altogether
frozen. If in th5 early morning there are sheets of
ice, by noonda}' a great part will be flooded an inch
or two deep, the water rising over the ice, and
forced by it to spread further, softening the ground
at the sides. The water-carriers are long before

340 DahcUcks.

they freeze. Thrushes and blackbirds come to the
hedges surrounding these meadows ; the fieldfares
and redwings are there by hundreds, and fly up to
the trees if alarmed.

The old folks say that the irrigated meadows (and
other open waters) do not freeze in the evening till
the moon rises ; a bright clear moon is credited
with causing the water to ' catch ' — that is, the
slender, thread-hke spicules form on the surface,
and, joining together, finally cover it. It is, of
course, because the water-meadows are long before
altogether frozen that the duck and teal come down
to them. When the brooks are frozen is almost the
only time when the dabchick can be got to rise : at
other times this bird will dive and redive, and
double about in the water, and rather be caught by
the spaniels than take wing. But when the ice pre-
vents this they will fly. Wood-pigeons go to the
few places that remain moist, and also frequent the
hawthorn bushes with the fieldfares. They seem
fond of trees that are overgrown with ivj', probably
for the berries.

The fish are supposed to go down upon the mud ;
but the jacks certainly do the reverse : the}' may
be seen laying just beneath the ice, and apparently
touching it with their backs. The}^ seem partly
torpid. In open winters, such as we have had of re-
cent years, the hedge fruit remains comparatively-
untouched by birds : from which it would appear
that it is not altogether a favorite food.

The country folk, who are much about at night
and natural!}^ pay great heed to the weather, are
persuaded that on rainy nights more shooting stars

Dark Nights. 341

are seen than when it is bright and clear. The kind
of weather the}' mean is when scudding clouds with
frequent breaks pass over, now obscuring and now
leaving part of the sky visible, and with occasional
showers. These shooting stars, they say, are but
just above the clouds, and are mere streaks of light :
by which they mean to convey that they have no
apparent nucleus and are different from the great
meteors which are sometimes seen.

I have mj'self been often much interested in the
remarkable difference of the degree of darkness when
there has been no moon. There are nights when,
although the sky be clear of visible cloud and the
stars are shining, it is, in familiar phrase, ' as black
as pitch.' The sk}- itself is black between the stars,
and they do not seem to give the slightest illumina-
tion. On the other hand, there are nights without
a moon when it is (though winter time) quite light.
Hedges and trees are plainly visible ; the road is light,
and an}' thing approaching can be seen at some dis-
tance, and this occasionall}' happens though the sky
be partly clouded. So that the character of the night
does not seem to depend entirely upon the moon or
stars. The shepherds on the hills say that now and
then there comes an intense blackness at night which
frightens the sheep and makes them leap the hurdles.

When logs of timber are split for firewood they
are commonly stacked ' four square,' and occasion-
ally such a stack, four or five feet high, may be seen
all aglow with phosphorescence. Each individual
split piece of wood is distinctly visible — a pale
faintly yellow hght seems to be emitted from its
surface. At the same time the ends of the fagot

342 Jach-o'-the-Lantern.

sticks projecting from the adjacent stack of fagots
also glow as if touched with fire. So vivid is the
light that at the first glance it is quite startling — as
if the whole collection of wood were just on the point
of bursting into flame. In passing old hollow trees
sometimes they appear illuminated from within : the
light proceeds from the decaying ' touchwood.' Old
willow trees are sometimes streaked with such light
from the top to the foot of the trunk. As this phos-
phorescence is only occasional, it would seem to de-
pend on the condition of the atmosphere.

I once noticed what looked like a glowworm on a
window-blind at night, but there was no glowworm
there ; the light was of a pale greenish hue. In the
morning an examination showed that the linen was
decayed and almost rotten just in that particular
spot, and it had slightly turned color. Glow-
worms are uncommon in the district which has been
more particularl}^ described.

The ignis fatuus is almost extinct ; so much so that
Jack-o'-the-Lantern has died out of the village folk-
lore. On one occasion, however, I saw what at a
distance seemed a bright light shining in a ditch
where two hedges met. Thinking some mischief was
going on, I went -to the spot, when the light dis-
appeared ; but on retiring, after a search which proved
that no one was about, it came into view again. A
second time I approached, and a second time the
hght died out. A few nights afterwards it was there
again and must clearly have been some kind of ignis
fatuus. There was a small quantity of stagnant
water in the ditch, and a good deal of rotting wood —
branches fallen from trees.

A Waterspout. 343

One of the most interesting phenomena in connec-
tion with the weather seems to me to be the nidiation
of clouds. It appears to be more commonly- visible
in the evening, and, when fully develojjed, there is a
low bank on the horizon, roughly arched, from which
streamers of cloud trail right across the sky, through
the zenith and down to the horizon opposite. Near
each horizon these streamers or lines almost touch ;
overhead they are wider apart — an effect of perspec-
tive, I suppose. Often the lines do not stretch so
far, hardly to the zenith, where they spread out like
a fan. If the sun has gone down, and the cloud
chances to be white, these lines greatly resemble the
aurora borealis, which takes the same form, and,
when pale, can scarcely be distinguished from them,
except for the streamers shooting — now extending,
now withdrawing — while the cloud streamers only
drift slowly. Sometimes there is but one line of
cloud, a single streamer stretching right across the
sk}'. So far as I have been able to observe, this
radiation is usually followed by wind blowing in a
direction parallel to the course of the streamers.

Once while walking in winter I was overtaken by
a storm of rain, and took shelter behind a tree, M'hich
for some time kept me perfectly dry. But suddenly
there' came an increase of darkness, and glancing
round, I saw a black cloud advancing in the teeth of
the wind, and close to the earth. The trees it passed
were instantly blotted out, and as it approached I
could see that in the centre it bulged and hung down
— or rather slightly slanting forward — in the shape of
an inverted cone with the apex cut off". This bulging
part was of a slaty black, and the end travelled over

344 Which does the 3Iischieff

the earth not higher than half the elevation of an
ordinary elm. It came up with great speed, and in a
moment I was completel}^ drenched, and the field was
flooded. It did not seem so much to rain as to
descend in a solid sheet of water ; this lasted a very
short time, and immediately afterwards the storm
began to clear. Though not a perfect waterspout, it
was something ver}^ near it. The tree behind which
I had taken shelter stood near a large pond, or mere ;
and I thought at the time that that might have
attracted the cloud. The field quite ran with water,
as if suddenly irrigated, but the space thus flooded
was of small area — about an acre.

The ha3'makers sometimes talk of mysterious
noises heard in the very finest weather, when it is
still and calm, resembling extremely distant thunder.
They were convinced it was something ' in the air ; '
but I feel certain it was the guns of the fleet exei'-
cising at sea. In that case the sound of the explo-
sion must have travelled over fifty miles in a direct
line — supposing it to come from the neighborhood of
the nearest naval station. I have found by observa-
tion that thunder cannot be heard nearly so far as
the sound of cannon. I doubt whether it is often
heard more than ten miles. Some of the old cottage
folk are still positive that it is not the lightning but
the thunder that splits the trees ; they ask if a great
noise does not make the windows rattle, and want to
know whether a still greater one ma}' not rive an oak.
They allow, however, that the mischief is sometimes
done by a thunder-bolt.

Cambridge : Press of John Wilson & Son.

ROBERTS BROTHERS'

Catalogue of Books,

SPRING OF 1879.

ANNOUNCEMENTS AND LATEST PUBLIOATIONS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " ECCE HOMO."
LIFE AND TIMES OF STEIN:

Or, Gernxany and Prussia in the Napoleonic Age. By J. R.
Sefxey, M.A., Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of
Cambridge (Eng. ). 2 vols. 8vo. With Portrait and Maps. Price $7.50.

SIGNOR MONALDINI'S NIECE.

A Novel. Being the first volume in the No-Name (second)
Series. Bound in green cloth, black and gold. Price $i.oo.

THE LIFE OF J. M. W. TURNER, R. A.

By Philip GrLiiERT Hamerton. With nine Illustrations after
the Master's Sketches, and four Woodcuts. Square i2mo. Cloth. Uni-
form with "The Intellectual Life," &c. Price $2.50.

THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG, AND THE
FALL OF THE NIBLUNGS.

By WiLLiAivt Morris, author of "The Earthly Paradise." Crown
8vo. Cloth. Price ^2.^0

THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME:

Sketches of Natural History and Rural Life. i2mo. Cloth.
Price $1.50.

WILD LIFE IN A SOUTHERN COUNTY.

By the author of "The Gamekeeper at Home." i6n:o. Cloth.
Price ,'?i-25.

THE EPIC OF HADES.

In Three Books. From the seventh London edition i6mo.
Cloth. Price $1.50.

GWEN:

A Drama in Monologue. By the author of "The Epic of Hades."
i6mo. Cloth. Price $1.50-

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ERNST MORITZ
ARNDT,

The Singer of the German Fatherland. With a Preface by the

author of " Ecce Homo." Crown 8vo. Cloth. Price $2.00.

Latest Publications.

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S LETTERS TO IMLAY,

With Prefatory Memoir by C Kegan Paul. Two Portraits after
Opie. i2ino. Cloth. Price $2.00.

CANTERBURY CHIMES:

Or, Chaucer's Tales Retold for Children. By FRANCIS Storr and
Hawes Turner. With Illustrations from the Ellesmere MS. i6mo.
Cloth. Price $1.00.

THE DRAMATIC LIST:

A Record of the Principal Performances of Living Actors and
Actresses of the British Stage. Compiled and edited by Charles Eyre
Pascoe. Crown 8vo. Morocco, gilt top. Price $5 00.

READING AS A FINE ART.

By Ernest Leguuve. Translated from the ninth edition. i6mo.
Cloth. Price 50 cents.

HEBREW MEN AND TIMES,

From the Patriarchs to the Messiah. By Joseph Henry Allen,
Lecturer on Ecclesiastical History in Harvard University. A new, re-
vised edition. i6mo. Cloth. Price $1.50.

UNDER THE LILACS.

By Louisa M. Alcott, author of "Little Women." With
Illustrations. Uniform with Miss Alcott's other famous books. i6mo.
Cloth. Price $1.50.

NELLY'S SILVER MINE.

A Story of Colorado Life. By H. H., author of "Bits of Travel,"
" Bits of Talk about Home Matters," &c. With Illustrations. i6mo.
Cloth. Price $1.50.

MODERN FRENCHMEN.

Five Biographies : Victor Jacquemont, Traveller and Naturalist;
Henri Perreyve, Ecclesiastic and Orator; Fran9ois Rude, Sculptor;
Jean Jacques Ampere, Historian, Archasologist, and Traveller ; Henri
Regnault, Painter and Patriot. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton.
Scjuare i2mo. Uniform with "The Intellectual Life," &c. Price $2.00.

A STORY OR TWO FROM AN OLD DUTCH TOWN.

I. Abram Van Zandt, the Man in the Picture. 2. Mr. Schermer-
horn's Marriage and Widowhood. 3. Master Vorhagen's Wife. By
Robert Lowell, author of " The New Priest in Conception Bay,"
" Antony Brade," &c. i6mo. Price $1.25.

SONGS OF ITALY.

By Joaquin Miller, author of "Songs of the Sierras," &c.
i6mo. Price $1.25.

A MASQUE OF POETS.

A collection of anonymous poems, written specially for this book.
The volume includes an entire Novelette in verse, by one of our most
popular poets. i6mo. No-Name style. Price ^i.oo; red line, holiday
edition, price $1.50.

Latest Publications.

MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF ANNA JAMESON,

Author of "Characteristics of Women," &c. By her Niece, Ger-
ARDINE Macpherson. With Portrait. 8vo. Price iij.50.

PHILOCHRISTUS.

Memoirs of a Disciple of the Lord. i6mo. Cloth. Price

$1.50.

MEMOIR AND LETTERS OF CHARLES SUMNER.

By Edward L. Pierce. With two newly engraved likenesses of
Sumner. Fifth edition. 'Pwo volumes. Svo. Cloth. Price ^6.00.
H.-.lf calf, marble edges, price $10.00.

CASTLE BLAIR.

A Story of Youthful Days. By Flora L. Shaw. i6mo. Price

$1.00.

FLOWERS:

Their Origin, Shapes, Perfumes, and Colors. By J. E. Taylor,
author of " Half Hours in the Green Lanes," &c. With 32 Colored
Figures by Sowerby, and 161 Woodcuts. i2mo. Full gilt. Price $2.50.

HOW TO TAKE CARE OF OUR EYES.

With Advice to Parents and Teachers in regard to the manage-
ment of the Eyes of Children. By Dr. H. C. Angell, ^LD. With
Illustrations. i6mo. Cloth. Price 50 cents.

BARRY CORNWALL'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REC-
OLLECTIONS.

Edited by Mrs. Procter and Coventry Patmore. Square
l2mo. Cloth. Price $2.00.

G. T. T.: OR, THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF
A PULLMAN.

By Rev. E. E. Hale. Price $1.00.

WISDOM SERIES.

Selections from the Apocrypha.

The Wisdom of Jesus the SoxN of Sirach; or, Ecclesias-

TICUS.

Selections from the Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius

Antoninus.
Selections from the Imitation of Christ.
Sunshine in the Soul. Poems selected by the Editor of

" Quiet Hours."
Selections from Epictetus.
The Life and History of the Reverend Doctor John

Tauler.

The "Wisdom Series" will be issued in handsome pocket vol-
umes. iSmo. Flexible cloth, red edges. Price 50 cents.

Latest Publications.

SOMEBODY ELSE.

A Novel. By George Parsons Lathrop. i6mo. Cloth. Price

$1.25.

FROM TRADITIONAL TO RATIONAL FAITH : OR,
THE WAY I CAME FROM BAPTIST TO LIBERAL
CHRISTIANITY.

By R. Andrkw Griffin. i6mo. Cloth. Price $1.00.

LAST SERIES OF CHRISTIAN ASPECTS OF FAITH
AND DUTY.

Discourses by John James Tayler. Square i2mo. Price $2.00.

THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT.

By Rev. William W. Paris. Being the second "Fletcher
Prize." i6mo. Cloth. Price $1.50.

WAYS OF THE SPIRIT,

And other Essays. By Frederic Henry Hedge, D.D.,
author of "Reason in Religion,''' "The Primeval World of Hebrew
Tradition," &c. Second edition. i6mo. Price $1.50.

HOURS OF THOUGHT ON SACRED THINGS.

By James Martineau, author of "Endeavors after the Christian
Life." i6mo. Cloth. Price $150.

WE BOYS.

Written by One of Us for the Amusement of Pa's and Ma's
in general, Aunt Lovisa in particular. i6mo. Cloth. Price $100.

THE WEST-EASTERLY DIVAN OF GOETHE.

Translated, with an Litroduction and Notes, by JOHN Weiss.
Square iSmo. Cloth. Price $1.25.

SAPPHO.

A Tragedy. From the German of Franz Grillparzer, by
Ellen Frothingham. Square iSmo. Cloth. Price ^i.oo.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS.

Chronologically arranged and edited, with a Memoir, by LORD
Houghton. i6mo. Cloth. Price ^2.00.

SONGS, BALLADS, AND STORIES.

By William Allingham. i6mo. Cloth, gilt edge. Price $2.50.

Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications.

THE m NAME (SECOND) SEEIES.

SiGNOR MONALDINI'S NiECE.

Extracts fr 0711 some Opitiions by "well-known Authors.

" We have read ' Signer Mong.ldini's Niece ' with intensest
interest and delight. The style is finished and elegant, the at-
mosphere of the book is enchanting. We seem to have lived in
Italy while we were reading it. The author has delineated with a
hand as steady as it is powerful and skilful some phases of human
life and experience that authors rarely dare attempt, and with
marvellous success. We think this volume by far the finest of
the No Name Series."

"It is a delicious story. I feel as if I had been to Italy and
knew all the people. . . . Miss Conroy is a strong character, and
her tragedy is a fine background for the brightness of the other
and higher natures. It is all so dramatic and full of color it goes
on like a lovely play and leaves one out of breath when the cur-
tain falls."

"I have re-read it with great interest, and think as highly of it
as ever. . . . The characterization in it is capital, and the talk
wonderfully well done from first to last."

" The new No Name is enchanting. It transcends the ordinary
novel just as much as a true poem by a true poet transcends the
thousand and one imitations. ... It is the episode, however, of
Miss Conroy and Mrs. Brandon that is really of most importance
in this book. ... I hope every woman who reads this will be
tempted to read the book, and that she will in her turn bring it to
the reading of other women, especially if she can find any Mrs.
Brandon in her circle."

In one volume, i6mo, bound in green cloth, black and gilt let-
tered. Price $1.00.

«

Oiir ■publications are to be had of all Booksellers. When
not to be found, send directly to

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.

Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications.

Wild Life in a Southern County.

By the Author of " The Gamekeeper at Home."
i6mo. Cloth. Price $1.25.

Prom the London Athemeum, March i, 1879.

" The author of ' The Gamekeeper at Home ' has given us a volume which is
worthy of a place beside White's ' Selborne.' Not, of course, that his style is
equal to that of his fascinating prototype (to say the truth, the Gamekeeper's style
is the least noticeable feature of his book) ; but in the essentials of a book of
this kind — in that closeness of observation which is born of the loving eye ; in
the power of giving, by an instinctive selection of physiognomic details, a picture
far beyond the efforts of the mere word-painter, who has to rely solely upon the
cumulative process so much now in vogue — he is the equal of the Selborne rector,
perhaps his superior. The author's observation of man is as close and as true as
his observation of the lower animals. For instance, he describes the farmers
driving to market, and as they go along the high-road, glancing up the furrows to
note how they are ploughed, and to look for game, ' You may tell from a distance
if they espy a hare, by the check of the rein, and the extended hand pointing.'
Yet his deepest affection is for the lower animals, as is mostly the case with those
who know them best.

" To those who love Nature in liar sweetest moods, — that is to say, basking on
soft hills, and slumbering in the green valleys of England, — this is a book to read
and to treasure."

From the Londoji Saturday Review.

"'Wild Life in a Southern County' is perhaps even a more delightful book
than 'The Gamekeeper at Home.' The author is at once the closest and the
most catholic of observers. It seems evident that he must have been bred up as
a boy in that out-of-the-world neighborhood which he describes so vividly. He
must surely have lived the life of the farm-house, and mixed with the easy famil-
iarity of boyhood among the farmers and their shepherds and laborers. ... It is
difficult to give more than the vaguest idea of a volume so full of entertaining mat-
ter. It might be defined as a vndtum in parvo Encyclopedia of country sights
and country matters. . . . Open the book where you may, you cannot fail to find
something attractive ; and as it is impossible to do it reasonable justice in a review,
we can only recommend our readers to procure it."

Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the Pub-
lishers,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY'S WORKS.

SALMONIA; or, Days of Fly Fishing. With
some Account of the Habits of Fishes belonging
to the Genus Salmo. With Illustrations. Fools-
cap 8vo. Price $1.50.

CONSOLATIONS IN TRAVEL ; or, The Last
Days of a Philosopher. With Illustrations.
Foolscap 8vo. Price $1.50.

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers,

Boston.

By the same Author.

THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME. Sketches

of Natural History and Rural Life. Third Edition.

i2mo. Cloth. Price $1.50.

"Delightful sketches. We do not need the author's assurance
that his facts have been gathered from personal observation. This is
so obvious from every page that, excepting the ' Natural History of
Selbome,' we remember nothing that has impressed us so certainly
with the conviction of a minute and vivid exactness. The lover of the
country can hardly fail to be fascinated wherever he may happen to
open the pages. It is a book to be read and kept for reference, and
should be on the shelves of every country gentleman's library." —
The London Saturday Reviezv.

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers,

Boston.

zs-