THE SPARROW HAWK 145 



of triumph the blackbird hurls itself into the 

 fence, having won the race by a good three yards. 

 Into the hedge behind it dives the plucky spar- 

 hawk, and when, breathless with running, we 

 arrive at the spot, the tinkle of the hawk's bell 

 tells where she is. In her eagerness she has driven 

 right into the middle of the fence. After some 

 trouble she is got out, not a feather the worse 

 for her experience, and then we try to beat the 

 blackbird out, but he lies low among the rubbish 

 in the hedge-bottom, being a wary old cock that 

 knows when he is safe. In vain do we thump and 

 poke, he is not to be dislodged; indeed, he has 

 vanished completely, and at last we have to give 

 it up. A move is then made for a field of mangolds, 

 among which there are often plenty of birds. 

 We walk slowly across them, one or two thrushes 

 getting up a little way off, but it is useless to slip 

 the hawk at them, as she would not have a reason- 

 able chance. They have good starts, too good 

 considering what an excellent flier the thrush 

 is. Suddenly a blackbird gets up at my very feet, 

 making off with a loud chuckle for the hedgerow. 

 In the same instant the hawk is after him, but 

 the distance is short can she overtake him ? 

 With a piercing shriek the blackbird drops into 

 the fence, but the hawk was upon him, and it was 

 as a combined streak of black and brown that 

 they disappeared into the undergrowth. Racing 

 and tumbling over the roots, we run for the hedge, 

 to be greeted on arrival by the ringing of the 

 hawk's bell in the ditch. There she is, holding 



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