THE GAME OF DEATH 



A HOST of small birds have been feeding on the 

 ploughing, the rear rank continually flying over the 

 front, and then in turn falling to the rear, till the flock 

 has somersaulted far out from the friendly hedge. 

 Suddenly their activity ceases. The earth has opened 

 and swallowed them up, or rather the heavens have 

 disclosed a danger that bids them lie very still among 

 the brown clods. High in the sky hangs a dot that 

 every sparrow there knows for his ancient enemy, 

 even though it may be a sparrow fresh from the nest, 

 that has never seen a hawk before. But it is an 

 awful business this lying quite still, hidden in sight, 

 while overhead, with piercing eyes, hangs Death in- 

 carnate. One by one, and in twos and threes, the 

 foragers slink off as best they can to the cover of the 

 friendly hedges, and on one of them the hawk descends 

 with unerring aim. 



Has he taken the slowest or the stupidest green- 

 finch, or has he, holding them all completely at his 

 mercy, made his swoop the penalty for excessive 

 plumpness ? Whichever it be, it can be only by a 

 hair's-breadth that the little bird lost. It is as beauti- 

 fully feathered, as long and perfect of wing, as plump 

 and as fit as any other November greenfinch. Yet, 

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