The Open Air 



in the trees, or on the fresh-turned furrows, they will 

 be seen to act in couples. On the ground couples 

 alight near each other, on the trees they perch near 

 each other, and in the air fly side by side. Like 

 soldiers each has his comrade. Wedged in the ranks 

 every man looks like his fellow, and there seems no 

 tie between them but a common discipline. Intimate 

 acquaintance with barrack or camp life would show 

 that every one had his friend. There is also the mess, 

 or companionship of half a dozen, or dozen, or more, 

 and something like this exists part of the year in the 

 armies of the rooks. After the nest time is over they 

 flock together, and each family of three or four flies 

 in concert. Later on they apparently choose their 

 own particular friends, that is the young birds do so. 

 All through the winter after, say October, these pairs 

 keep together, though lost in the general mass to the 

 passing spectator. If you alarm them while feeding 

 on the ground in winter, supposing you have not got 

 a gun, they merely rise up to the nearest tree, and it 

 may then be observed that they do this in pairs. One 

 perches on a branch and a second comes to him. 

 When February arrives, and they resort to the nests 

 to look after or seize on the property there, they are in 

 fact already paired, though the almanacs put down 

 St. Valentine's day as the date of courtship. 



There is very often a warm interval in February, 

 sometimes a few days earlier and sometimes later, 

 but as a rule it happens that a week or so of mild 

 sunny weather occurs about this time. Released 

 from the grip of the frost, the streams trickle forth 

 from the fields and pour into the ditches, so that while 

 walking along the footpath there is a murmur all 

 around coming from the rush of water. The murmur 

 of the poets is indeed louder in February than in the 



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