WATCHING ROOKS 281 



wings, falls in a drizzle from the branches. Joyous, 

 excited cries, ' chu, chu, chac, chac' The whole dark 

 grove is a cry, a music. Still other bands, they burden 

 the air. Band after band — now with a pause between 

 each. They fly swiftly and steadily up, at a not much 

 greater height than the trees, not descending into 

 them out of the sky. 



" A longer pause, followed by another hurrying 

 band. And now the moon is shining through the 

 larches, and the black, ceaseless pinions go hurrying 

 across its face. Groans, moans, shrieks almost, yells 

 amongst the larches, all mingled and blending — but 

 sinking now. A marvellous medley, a wonderful 

 hoarse harmony ! Here are shoutings of triumph, 

 chatterings of joy, deep trills of contentment, hoarse 

 yells of derision, deep guttural indignations, moanings, 

 groanings, tauntings, remonstrances, clicks, squeaks, 

 sobs, cachinnations, and the whole a most musical 

 murmur. Loud, but a murmur, a wild, noisy, 

 clamorous murmur ; but sinking now, softening — a 

 lullaby. 



' I never heard 

 So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.'" 



When the rooks sweep down, thus, into their 

 roosting -trees they frequently do so with a peculiar 

 whirring or whizzing noise of the wings, but although 

 this sound is in perfect consonance with the motion 

 which it accompanies — insomuch that one has to use 

 the same words to describe each — yet it does not 

 seem to be produced by it. At least, it bears no 

 relation to the height from which the birds swoop, 

 nor — as would seem to follow from this — with the 



