208 THE PLOUGHING 



snicked his leg off with his brutal bangfire. And so 

 he blinks at the sun, now getting high and hot ; closes 

 his eye, then opens it again, and cocks his head at 

 an angle that causes me to look up. 



The Kestrel is hovering above. She for it is 

 the female also appears to regard me as part of the 

 mud mound, to judge by the closeness of her 

 approach. It is a grand shot, as one might say; that 

 is, from my position a shot would blow her to 

 pieces. 



What does she want there ? I ask myself, as she 

 poises on still wings above, and a little behind, the 

 Ringed Plover. Will she strike? and if she does? 

 the thoughts form themselves without words. Well, 

 my dear, I should recite a hurried " In manus tuas " 

 for you ; there would be a sudden grab and jab ; and 

 the lost leg and ruffled wing, the pain and hunger, 

 the futile desire itself for the far land whither your 

 fellows are gone, would cease to trouble any more. 



But, whether beaten off by the rabble of Sand- 

 martins, or minded as I who live day by day with 

 the Kestrel can well believe not to strike at all, the 

 Hawk, after prolonged hovering, worked back to the 

 other end of the marsh. 



Then I got up quietly, and the bird also rose with 

 difficulty on its one leg, but sat down again as I 

 retired. 



I kept my eye on the Hawk as I went over the 

 fields, and seeing it again move along toward the 

 spot where the Ringed Plover was, I tarried too 

 long in the lane to escape the critical inquisition of 

 Sabbatarian eyes. In such ungodly guise little 

 credit could be given me for a Sabbath mood. 



