268 Migration of Corncrakes. 



I succeeded in tracing it to an oak tree. I got 

 under the oak tree, and there on a bough was a 

 redwing singing with all his might. It should be 

 remarked that neither redwing nor fieldfare sings 

 during the winter; they of course have their 'call' 

 and cry of alarm, but by no stretch of courtesy could 

 it be called a song. But this redwing was singing 

 — sweet and ver}' loud, far louder than the old fa- 

 miliar notes of the thrush. The note rang out clear 

 and high, and somehow sounded strangely' unfamiliar 

 among English meadows and English oaks. 



Then, looking farther and watching about the 

 hedges there, I soon found that the bird was not 

 alone — there were three or four pairs of redwings in 

 close neighborhood, all evidently bent upon remain- 

 ing to breed. To make quite sure, I shot one. 

 Afterwards I found a nest, and had the pleasure of 

 seeing the 3'oung birds come to maturity and fly. 



Nothing could be more thoroughly opposed to the 

 usual habits of the bird. There may be other instances 

 recorded, but what one sees oneself leaves so much 

 deeper an impression. The summer that followed 

 was a very fine one. It is instances like this that 

 make one hesitate to dogmatize too much as to the 

 why and wherefore of bird-ways. Yet it is just the 

 speculation as to that why and wherefore which in- 

 creases the pleasure of observing them. 



Then there is the corncrake, of whose curious 

 tricks in the mowing-grass I have already written. 

 The crake's rules of migration are not easily recon- 

 ciled with any theory I have ever heard of. In the 

 particular locaUty which has been described the 

 crakes come earl}^, they enter the mowing-grass 



