72 Idylls of the Field. 



ash, whose branches, tipped with black like points of 

 charcoal, show yet no sign of budding green. Now he 

 takes wing, still calling as he flies, pausing now and 

 then to say softly, and under his breath, in rapid 

 notes, ' kawk, kok, kak, kikj and then again resumes 

 b's clear familiar cry. 



Suddenly, above the sweet harmonies of the wood, 

 sounds the voice of a starling, copying in swift succes- 

 sion the notes of jackdaw and yellow-hammer, swallow 

 and missel-thrush. 



What is he doing here, in the heart of the wood ? 

 He is perched in one of a group of beeches that lift 

 their stately heads high above the thickets. 



You are just beneath the tree, hushing as best you 

 may the sound of your movements on the rustling 

 leaves, when a dead stick snaps under your tread. 



The starling overhead takes wing with startled 

 cry. Another, flying out from lower down, betrays 

 the secret. They are land-grabbers ; they have driven 

 out the rightful tenants, and taken possession of their 

 holding. 



The old trunk is scarred and pitted by the beaks 

 of woodpeckers, and some twenty feet from the 

 ground is the hole that was once their nest. The 

 round entrance bears marks of age. The bark has 

 long since hidden the signs of the miner's tool. The 

 polished sides betray the passing of generations of 

 starlings. 



The woodpeckers have found another home ; they 



