79\C SGTPT 151 



little troop of jackdaws will alight upon the grass, their 

 grey heads giving them a grave and reverend air alto- 

 gether foreign to their real temper. There is, in truth, 

 but little gravity about them. They are a jovial crew, 

 whose voices have a sort of reckless, dare-devil sound, as 

 if conscious of a reputation much blown upon, and of 

 unpleasant stories about a cardinal's ring. They are fine 

 fellows, but their genius for plunder shows itself directly. 

 Making a hasty scramble for the most attractive pieces, 

 they carry them off to neighbouring housetops to devour 

 their loot at leisure. 



The rook is not so easily induced to take a hand. Mis- 

 trustful of man and all his works, he flies past again and 

 again, fluttering in the air, his legs hanging down as if 

 he had made up his mind to take the plunge at last. 

 Time after time he gives it up and settles in a tree hard 

 by, whose branches bend under his clumsy figure. When 

 at length he does alight, it is but for a moment. He 

 stalks solemnly up and down, then seizing in his beak 

 the largest piece of all, hops forward a little, spreads 

 his great wings, and is gone. 



Among the birds that visit us in winter, few perhaps 

 are more familiar, at least by name, than the woodcock. 

 It was formerly considered to be almost exclusively a 

 winter visitor, going northward again in the spring. " It 

 cannot indeed be denied," wrote Gilbert White in 1770, 

 " but that now and then we hear of a woodcock's nest, 

 or young bird, discovered in some part or other of these 

 islands ; but then they are always mentioned as rarities 

 and somewhat out of the common course of things." 



