108 OUR (LAST SAUNT “OF “fHE SEASON 
old bird kept a constant eye on them and 
us. 
Noisy carrion crows had flown out from 
the island when we came, but no trace of a 
nest appeared. As we tore our way through 
heavy bushes and thick grass, I spied a 
round slate-coloured object in a tree, and 
thought I had made a great discovery. 
When lo! the object fluttered to the ground. 
It was a fledgling carrion crow. Hence 
the colour of the plumage. But when I 
bolted after it through thick and thin, the 
wily bird, though still so young, eluded my 
endeavours to make him prisoner, and soon 
was lost amongst the undergrowth, safe 
from pursuit and further harm. ‘ Next 
season we must be earlier on the scene, and 
try to find the nest that doubtless will be 
built up there’, said Ted. 
As I stood, quite hidden by the leaves 
above my head, a young chaffinch family 
(keeping together as they always do), disturbed 
by my friend a few yards further on, came 
fluttering back almost within my reach. A 
