THE BIRDS or LONDON 187 



often mobbed by the swallows and other birds. 

 Here on a southern common just outside the smoke 

 zone one may see him sometimes. The swallows 

 have been flying all the afternoon over the smooth 

 surface of the pond, dipping occasionally into the 

 tepid water, and in the still air sending the tiny 

 wavelets travelling all the way to the distant edges. 

 The house-martins, distinguished by the white patch 

 on the lower part of the back, fly in and out amongst 

 them. But what is this excitement which has 

 suddenly come amongst the birds ? They have 

 forsaken the water and are flying overhead, the 

 swallow's shrill excited note — tweet — tweet — 

 coming from several throats at once. The eye 

 travels inquiringly round. There is a flash of wings 

 at the corner of the copse where the furze ceases and 

 the white-thorns grow thickly, followed by a little 

 bird-like cry of agony. A sparrowhawk has swooped 

 down among the bushes and some little nest of 

 half-fledged yellow-hammers hidden in the gorse 

 has been orphaned. Now you may see the meaning 

 of the swallow's note of alarm ; the air is full of 

 birds which seem to have gathered as if by magic. 

 The hawk has secured his prey and stands for a 

 moment holding it beneath him in his talons on a 

 branch of the stunted oak. The swallows dash 

 down furiously at him within an inch of his head, 

 screaming loudly as they pass and rise again on 

 the wing. He is off now with his prize in the 

 direction of the wood, mobbed by the whole troop 

 of birds which continue screaming in anger and 

 making dashes at him the whole of the way. Nature 

 is still red in tooth and claw even in these quiet 

 neighbourhoods close to London. The excitement 



