12 By Leafy Ways. 



cock in the yard beneath him, the chatter of a startled 

 magpie in the field, even imitate the whistle of a pass- 

 ing train ere it disappears in the tunnel. 



The starling is a careless builder. His nest is no 

 marvel of patience and of art ; no exquisite fabric of 

 moss, touched here and there with lichen, and 

 harmonizing so well with its surroundings that it seems 

 part of the very branch in which it is cradled. It is 

 almost invariably placed in a hole of some kind, often 

 under the tiles of a house. Here, it is in the hollow of 

 an ancient tree; there, a few untidy ends of straw 

 hanging out of a niche betray its presence high up in 

 the ruined tower of the dismantled abbey. Now it 

 rouses the ire of the householder by stopping up the 

 rain-pipe ; now it is under the brown thatch of the old 

 farm gable. A favourite nesting place is a wood- 

 pecker's hole, new or old, and the starling is most 

 unscrupulous in evicting the rightful occupiers who 

 have had all the trouble of getting the house ready, 

 even before they have used it themselves. In some 

 such quarters, in a hollow in a little straw, are laid the 

 five or more delicate pale blue eggs ; and, when the 

 young are hatched, the cries of the old birds and the 

 clamour of their insatiable brood proclaim the where- 

 abouts of the nest to every passer-by. 



In the Bavarian Highlands, where most birds are 

 scarce, and where the swallow builds unmolested in 

 the entrance hall of the village hostelry, the starling is 

 a welcome retainer. A starling-box, a little copy of a 



