218 RURAL BIRD LIFE. 



wing the main flock pursues its way through the heavens 

 to the distant rookery. The Babel of sounds is deafen- 

 ing as they wheel round and round previous to alighting. 

 One by one or in little parties they perch on the top- 

 most branches, now struggling for a post of vantage, or 

 taking short flights, uttering their hoarse caws. In the 

 distance parties of three or four are winging their way 

 to join the throng. The noise becomes louder, the some- 

 what shrill cry of the Jackdaw mingling with the homely 

 caw, caw of the Rook. The sun is sinking down in a 

 sea of gold, and the moon, some height in the heavens, 

 appears as a pale ball of fire. Cock Robin, singing his 

 loudest, can scarcely be heard a few paces away, as the 

 flapping wings above us, and the din their owners are 

 making, drown his attempts to gain our notice. At 

 last a lull occurs, as the Rooks, perched on every avail- 

 able. bough, turn their heads from side to side, or preen 

 their glossy plumage. But it is not to last, even though 

 the sun has long disappeared, and night reigns in all her 

 soft and magic beauty. The Bats are flitting round us 

 under the gloomy branches ; Cock Robin has sought a 

 roosting place ; field mice are chirping under the 

 withered leaves ; and the woods bear that damp earthy 

 smell so prominent at night. Now one old fellow 

 perched on a dead limb far up yonder elm utters a 

 hoarse croak ; another and another answer ; now two 

 or three together ; and speedily the din is loud, nay, 

 louder than before. Many change their places, their 

 dark forms showing out against the clear western sky. 

 Others hop about the boughs, to be pushed off by their 

 companions and compelled to seek refuge elsewhere. 

 What a terrific din ! Is there going to be no end to it ? 

 Yes, gentle reader, the Rooks are a noisy race, and all 

 their gatherings are attended with noisy converse. Yet, 



