CHAPTER XLVI 



THE STARLING 



The starling is a dirty bird — dusky-skinned, gaily-spotted 

 like a dung-fly, fruit-thieving and imitative. A hanger-on 

 to the borders of civilisation, he has learnt all the petty 

 meannesses of the Broadsman and none of his noble quali- 

 ties; he is a filthy pariah, a lover of warm chimney-corners 

 and animal droppings, and his song, now thrush-like, now 

 recalling some finch, is stolen ; he is a born plagiarist, a 

 dirty, sordid little creature, and full of the citizen's cunning. 

 I never knew him do a kind deed nor an unselfish one ; he 

 will not even fight for his young; but, like many con- 

 temptible little things, he, in certain lights, looks beautiful 

 when he is arching in the liquid azure in autumn flocks 

 over a reed-bed, or when he is adorning the autumn reeds, 

 weighing down the golden stems to the still water's bosom. 



In early spring, when the marshlands are dry and bare, 

 you see him flocking with rooks and jackdaws round the 

 cattle and sheep just turned out to marsh, alighting on their 

 backs, feeding on their droppings, flying greedily along, the 

 tail of the flock flying ahead of the leaders, so advancing 

 with gobbles and twitters in alternate battalions over the 

 marshland and soft holls, prodding for worms. 



And if the weather be open, you will see some solitary 

 bird singing his borrowed thrush-like song from some tree- 

 top or mill-head, flapping his wings at times, for they pair 

 according to the seasons, some earlier, some later ; in- 

 deed, I have seen unpaired flocks ranging the marshes till 

 May-day. 



