WHITS 27 



orchard, right under the walnut-tree. In a moment the 

 magpie is down ; his merciless beak has gripped the 

 hapless youngster. There is a faint cry of agony, but 

 before the infuriated hen can struggle through the 

 hedge, the bandit is already bearing his ill-gotten booty 

 to his stronghold. 



Day by day, if no avenging volley should cut short 

 his murderous career, the visit will be repeated, until of 

 all the busy crew that, but a week ago, followed their 

 proud mother to the field, there is only a miserable 

 remnant left. 



Just as there is no more certain sound than the 

 chatter of a magpie, so there is no woodland figure 

 whose dress is more easily distinguished ; and not only is 

 his plumage bold and striking, but it is by no means so 

 plain as a distant glimpse might suggest. His broad 

 tones of black and white make the magpie ever a bird 

 of mark, but it needs a nearer view than he is willing to 

 allow to show him off to best advantage. Not only is 

 the white so very pure and spotless, the black so very 

 deep and glossy, but there is upon his wings and tail a 

 changing light of green and purple that may rank in 

 beauty with the splendid colour in the wing of the teal 

 or the shining velvet on the head of the mallard. 



Perhaps no prejudice holds its ground more firmly, or 

 has a wider sway, than that which views a single magpie 

 as an augury of ill. To this very day the men of Devon 

 are said to spit thrice over the right shoulder and 

 mutter a scrap of rhyme when the ill-omened bird is 

 seen. Still the Somersetshire yeoman bows to it gravely 



