A SUMMER-DAY TRAGEDY 



A WEEK ago the rookery was the gayest place 

 in the world, and its clamorous population had 

 a mighty fine opinion of themselves. They began 

 fifty strong in February, and found themselves 

 nearly three times that strength in the second 

 week of May. On every nest-bearing bough sat 

 three, and in some cases as many as five, young 

 rooks, intent at once on acquiring the art of 

 balance and the proper inflections of the rook 

 language. They took to language more readily 

 than to balancing no doubt because every time 

 they nearly tumbled off they felt obliged to make 

 a tremendously long story about it. Now and 

 again one actually tumbled off, and learnt with a 

 pride which nearly overcame his fright that he 

 could fly. It was, to be sure, a downward fly, 

 an agitated parachutic descent, ending with a 

 splash among the leaves and twigs of a shrub 

 dreadfully near that alarming country, the ground. 

 But flying is flying, up or down, and a great thing 

 to accomplish. Moreover, it is the first step, for 

 even a young rook can recognize that if he comes 

 down he must get up again, and in the effort to 

 get up he really and truly learns to fly. And in 

 this way quite a score of the new generation had 



