146 BEACH GRASS 



It was a marvelous and mysterious exhibition. 

 I have often watched from my house the 

 western stream of crows go by, bound for the 

 roost. With a strong northwest wind the greater 

 number fly in the lea of the hill close to the 

 marsh. A smaller number push their way in the 

 valley to the north partly sheltered from the 

 wind by the trees. It exposes himself to the full 

 sweep of the wind over the top of the hill. 

 When the wind is in the east the crows fly close 

 to the marsh and follow the windings of Castle 

 Creek. With a westerly breeze, however, the 

 birds fly high and, silhouetted against the sunset 

 glow, the birds pass over the hill at great speed, 

 alternately flapping and sailing. Those that fly 

 over the marshes keep at the level of the top of 

 the hill instead of skimming close to the ground 

 as they do in unfavorable winds. I have counted 

 eighty and at times as many as one hundred and 

 twenty passing in a minute in this western 

 tributary to the roost. Sometimes they tarry at 

 Birch Island and blacken the bare trees with 

 their numbers, and fill the air with the din of 

 their afternoon conversation. Of a sudden they 



