To Mountain Tarn 



bite of anything. With eyes on the ground, it 

 sails over village, lane, and field, dropping down 

 on whatever has been thrown out, or wherever 

 the peasant is turning over the clod. 



So with the crows. They may not live on 

 heather tips like the grouse, not being made that 

 way. Nor, by reason of heaviness of wing, are 

 they fitted to kill fresh food. Merlin and pere- 

 grine are born raiders, a part being assigned to 

 them from whose performance they may in 

 nowise escape. Crow and raven must take what 

 comes their way must pick up what the falcon 

 leaves, must scan the slope for wounded birds, 

 for dead or dying sheep, for the halt, the lame, 

 and the blind. When these fail, and with no 

 steady income, they have long spells of hunger. 



Eggs and even young birds come in as dainty 

 scraps. Such is the head and front of their 

 offending. From that they may not be absolved. 

 Over against a heronry on a cliff face, was a 

 colony of jackdaws. Frequently were the herons' 

 eggs taken. The keepers climbed the rocks, and 

 round about the jackdaws' nests found tell-tale 

 bits of shell. Of course the herons should have 

 stayed more at home, or left a sentinel on guard 

 with his bayonet-like bill. A lady sat at a 

 window looking out on Strathearn, whose har- 

 vests were to Ruskin the most generous and 

 lovely on earth. In the immediate foreground 

 was a tree, and on the tree a nest. The parent 



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