THROUGH THE YEAR 169 



From twig to twig one bird followed the other, and 

 I saw pursuer give pursued a kind of mild peck ; 

 it was the lightest touch if it really was a touch. 

 There was nothing that looked like a chase of anger 

 or rivalry ; it was as if one golden wren was inviting, 

 cossetting, the other to roost. Courtship between 

 birds is surely out of the question on a chill November 

 eve, and the movements of these mites seemed not 

 swift enough by half for wrath. The gentle pecks, 

 or stretchings out of bill to bill, might be likened 

 to the antennal communication between bees or 

 ants, the dumb language of touch. 



WINTER CHAFFINCHES 



An hour after sunrise I came upon the largest 

 flock of chaffinches I have ever seen. It must have 

 held a full two thousand birds, and among them 

 were only a few greenfinches. The great mass of the 

 birds were cock chaffinches, but it was not, as these 

 winter gatherings often are, a bachelor gathering 

 only, for there were several hundred hen chaffinches 

 in the flock. The flock rose in two great parties with 

 a whir as I approached, and swept round into the 

 hedge. The stubble field where they were feeding 

 was still white and sparkling in the sun with the 

 hoar frost, and the effect and whole scene of this 

 Sussex hill was exquisite. 



Later came the dark skies full of formless scud 

 cloud, and then those dripping days when English 

 landscape, either in open fields or woodlands, 

 appears at its sorriest. These are always the worst 



