288 THE ZOOLOGIST. 



flies from the ground in silence, though put up by me. Another 

 one — a cock this time for certain — does the same, with a very 

 modified note, querulous and chattering — nothing like the well- 

 known one, the alarm-note, as it is called. 



About 8, great bands of small birds are in full activity. 

 They are pillaging a straw-stack, to the sides of which they cling, 

 and, on being disturbed, fly from it, in a cloud, to some fir-trees 

 near, and then backwards and forwards at intervals. Their 

 wings, all vibrating together, make a powerful whirring noise, 

 which is at its maximum as they rise together in a cloud, lessen- 

 ing as they spread out, ceasing suddenly as they whirl into a tree 

 or on to the ground again. 



A Pheasant walking and feeding quietly by the side of the 

 stack. Partridges scattered about the stubble-field, and begin- 

 ning now to feed over it. Two Rooks, perched side by side on a 

 tree, are like bits of black night staying after the rest has fled. 

 The small birds making the flocks are Chaffinches, cock and hen 

 (the latter largely predominating, but on a thorn-bush I see two 

 cocks and six hens) Greenfinches (mostly hens, I suppose, yet 

 yesterday there was a great show of green as they rose) and 

 Yellowhammers — but these in twos and threes. 



Two little Golden-crested Wrens are flying from fir to fir, and 

 pecking about the bark, as if for insects. Yet what can they get 

 on the 9th of December, and a cold frosty morning ? From the 

 little stream comes a peculiar trumpety note, made, I believe, by 

 a Mallard, for, looking in the direction it came from, I saw a bird 

 on the water, and, walking there a little afterwards, put a female 

 Mallard up. This great flock of small Passeres is now perched 

 all over an oak-tree, which looks in leaf and life again — a feathered 

 foliage. How bizarre is colour, in the dead of winter, here ! All 

 that I can see now are Chaffinches and Greenfinches, and both 

 sexes are well represented. This is apparent, for the tree is full 

 of colour, and it is only the cocks that make it. Two — one of 

 each kind — are sitting side by side, close — almost pressed — 

 together, making a pretty effect, like a splotch on a painter's 

 palette, but in feather-work — very much softer. 



Whilst jotting this down a minute spider falls on my note- 

 book. This answers the question as to the Golden-crested Wrens, 

 " What can they get ? " — to a certain extent, at least. Many spiders 



