Sparrows in the Corn. 57 
every ten or twenty yards a cloud of sparrows and 
small birds will rise from it, literally hiding the haw- 
thorn bush on which they settle, so that the green 
tree looks brown. Wait a little while, and with 
defiant chirps back they go, disappearing in the 
wheat. 
The sparrows will sometimes flutter at the top of 
the stalk, hovering for a few moments in one spot, as 
if trying to perch on the ears; then, grasping one 
with their claws, they sink with it and bear it to the 
ground, where they can revel at their leisure. A place 
where a hailstorm or heavy rain has beat down and 
levelled the tall corn flat is the favourite spot for these 
birds ; they rise from it in hundreds at atime. But 
some of the finches are probably searching for the 
ripe seeds of the weeds that spring up among the 
corn; they find also a feast of insects. 
Leaving now the gnarled hawthorn and the 
cushion of thyme, I pass a deserted sheep-pen, where 
in the early year the tender lambs were sheltered 
from the snow and wind. Mile after mile, and still 
no sign of human life—everywhere silence, solitude. 
Hill after hill and plain after plain. Presently the 
turf is succeeded by a hard road—flints ground down 
into dust by broad waggon-wheels bearing huge 
towering loads of wool or heavy wheat. Just here 
the old track happens to answer the purposes of 
modern civilisation. Past this, and again it reverts 
to turf, leaving now the hills for a mile or two to 
