THE CEOWS. 100 



by nettles. In a degree there is something to him 

 approaching to sport in nesting. 



But these bird-catchers simply stand by the ditch 

 with their hands in their pockets sucking a stale pipe. 

 They would rather lounge there in the bitterest north- 

 east wind that ever blew than do a single hour's 

 honest work. Blackguard is written in their faces. 

 The poacher needs some courage, at least ; he knows a 

 penalty awaits detection. These fellows have no idea 

 of sport, no courage, and no skill, for their tricks are 

 simplicity itself, nor have they the pretence of utility, 

 for they do not catch birds for the good of the farmers 

 or the market gardeners, but merely that they may 

 booze without working for the means. 



Pity it is that any one can be found to purchase the 

 product of their brutality. No one would do so could 

 they but realize the difference to the captive upon 

 which they are lavishing their mistaken love, between 

 the cage, the alternately hot and cold room (as the 

 fire goes out at night), the close atmosphere and 

 fumes that lurk near the ceiling, and the open air 

 and freedom to which it was born. 



The rooks only came to the dust-heap in hard 

 weather, and ceased to visit it so soon as the ground 

 relaxed and the ploughs began to move. But a couple 

 of crows looked over the refuse once during the day 

 for months till men came to sift the cinders. These 

 crows are permanent residents. Their rendezvous is a 

 copse, only separated from the furze by the highway. 



They are always somewhere near, now in the 

 ploughed fields, now in the furze, and during the 

 severe frosts of last winter in the road itself, so 



