Young Pariridges. 55 
and the beech copse away there is blackened for a 
moment as the shadow leaps it. On the smooth 
bark of those beeches the shepherd lads have cut 
their names with their great clasp-knives. 
Sometimes in the evening, later on, when the 
wheat is nearly ripe, such a shepherd lad will sit 
under the trees there; and as you pass along the 
track comes the mellow note of his wooden whistle, 
from which poor instrument he draws a sweet sound. 
There is no tune—no recognisable melody: he plays 
from his heart and to himself. Ina room doubtless 
it would seem harsh and discordant; but there, the 
player unseen, his simple notes harmonise with the 
open plain, the looming hills, the ruddy sunset, as if 
striving to express the feelings these call forth. 
Resting thus on the wild thyme under the haw- 
thorn, partly hidden and quite silent, we may see 
stealing out from the corn into the fallow hard by 
first one, then two, then half a dozen or more young 
partridge chicks. With them is the anxious mother, 
watching the sky chiefly, lest a hawk be hovering 
about ; nor will she lead them far from the cover of 
the wheat. She stretches her neck up to listen and 
look: then, reassured, walks on, her head nodding as 
she moves. The little ones crowd after, one darting 
this way, another that, learning their lesson of life— 
how and where to find the most suitable food, how to 
hide from the enemy : imitation of the parent develop- 
ing hereditary inclinations. 
