176 BIRDS OF THE COUNTRYSIDE 



one flew down into the road. I bent down to put it out 

 of harm's way, and its yells at me at once brought 

 its parents to within a couple of yards of my head, 

 tails expanded, feathers ruffled and darting within a 

 foot of my face. The storm-cock rollicks through life 

 like the king-bird of America, singing his "the devil 

 take her." * 



A mile from the village there is a large flag and reed 

 grown pond, with an island in the middle, clustered 

 with many creeping water-plants on the marshy banks, 

 and well guarded not only by an outer fortification of 

 dense trees, but an inner fringe of garlic. The most beau- 

 tiful lake in the world is but a hole with water in it without 

 its pulse, its local genius and informing spirit the water- 

 fowl, and I used to spend long periods by this pond watch- 

 ing the teal, mallard, etc., and hearing their greetings, 

 discussions and ejaculations the crek crek of the water- 

 hen, like the flapping of disturbed water against the 

 reeds, and the peculiar cry of the coot, something 

 between a honk and a cluck, which gives a combina- 

 tion of wildness with peace and serenity to its haunts. 

 The coot is usually called a plain bird, but if the beams 

 of the sun alight on it, the head and neck shine out a 

 glossy blue-black, the white frontal shield gleams in 

 the rays, and the soft slate-grey of the back tempers 

 the whole. But even without the sun's aid, this shield, 

 accentuating the darkness of the bird's plumage, like 

 a flash of lightning in a black sky, has a fine effect. It 

 looks like a fleck of sunlight on the waters, and at the 

 same time protects the bird through its likeness to the 

 dirty white tops of the dead reeds. The likeness is 

 helped by the reflection which gives length. The white 

 webs in the upright tail feathers of the water-hen serve 



1 The racket mistle-thriishes make in love-rivalry is far louder 

 than that of castanets at the same distance. I have seen them 

 fighting for love as early as January 5th, and as soon as two males 

 are locked in combat, off goes the hen, and instantly they leave 

 their broil and take after her, dividing their inexhaustible energies 

 between the love and the war-cry, the chase of passion and fury, 

 the advance of attraction and repulsion, brandishing swords and 

 roses, so to speak, alternatively for hours at a time. 



