444 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



the new rearguard overleaping, or they settle like a 

 very abundant black fruit and break out into a multi- 

 tudinous whistling and cat-calling. But again and 

 again they start into the air and resume their fault- 

 less evolutions, now withdrawing towards the amber 

 horizon, now rilling the neighbourhood with the rustle 

 and rush of their myriad wings. The townsman asks 

 brusquely what they do it for. He expects some 

 material reason, such as the presence of some im- 

 mense and elusive band of flies to be hunted. The 

 true reason is too far for the townsman to grasp, 

 so we compromise by suggesting that these evening 

 evolutions are useful as a means of warming the flock 

 for its cold vigil on the rapidly thinning trees. The 

 truth is that these massed exercises which appeal to 

 the human intelligence as the very poetry of motion 

 are partly due to the fact that these are birds, partly 

 because they are starlings. 



Who is the starling? He does not fall easily into a 

 class as any other bird we know does. The black- 

 bird is a thrush beyond doubt, the martin is a swallow, 

 the jackdaw a crow, the green linnet a finch. There 

 are half a dozen tits, the whitethroat represents a 

 considerable family, the pied wagtail has familial 

 congeners, but the starling persists in standing in a 

 class apart. Did any one ever hear such a song as 

 that of the starling, with its duckings, chatterings, 

 raspings, and clear whistlings ? On any fine day the 

 year through we may see him on the chimney-pot, 

 with humped back, drooping wing, puffed-out throat, 

 and wide-open beak, shaking out the music as though 

 he were shaking out bits of the instrument at the 

 same time. Those who have been in the beech wood 



