160 By Leafy Ways. 



hope of escape from the rush of its untiring wings, and 

 the fatal stroke of its resistless talons. 



The commonest of the race, the kestrel, far from 

 being a foe to the farmer or the keeper, is a staunch 

 ally. No poacher is he ; no harrier of hen-coops ; 

 even the lark and the linnet may for the most part go 

 free for hitn. His game is usually nothing more 

 mbitious than moles or field-mice ; while the chafer 

 and the dor-beetle furnish perhaps even the greater 

 part of his diet. 



The kestrel will often take possession of the 

 abandoned nest of a crow, but is fond, when he can 

 get it, of a fortress in the rocks. 



In a niche high up in the cliff, half hidden perhaps 

 by ancient whitebeam and rowans, which cling with 

 roots like talons to the battered crags, and fringed 

 with the grey-green tongues of limestone-loving ferns, 

 the rich brown eggs, the coveted spoil of the young 

 collector, are laid and hatched with no more nest than 

 the earth which decayed leaves or w'nter storms have 

 strewn lightly over the stony surface. 



From such an eyrie the keen-eyed hawk looks far 

 out over the landscape. Sweeping down upon the 

 lowlands with a few beats of his strong wings, he 

 lingers a moment perhaps in the dark fir-trees in the 

 lane below, then drifts leisurely down the valley on his 

 morning raid. Now he poises in mid air. His wings 

 spread wide and motionless to catch the breeze, or 

 rapidly vibrating in the still ether ; his broad tail 



