FIELD NOTES. 291 



recurring clatter and swish of wings, and then, in another ten 

 minutes, the great bulk of the birds (as it seems) rise suddenly, 

 with such a clapping as Garrick or Mrs. Siddons might have 

 dreamed of, fly rapidly about, descend into the trees again, leave 

 them once more, and depart — numbers of them, at least — in im- 

 petuous, arrowy flight. In a little while, though the plantation 

 seems still fairly peopled, the greater part of them, as I think, 

 have gone. Towards four, however, it becomes so cold that I 

 have to move, and all the Pigeons fly out of all the trees — a 

 revelation as to their real numbers, quite a wonderful thing to 

 see. Some of the trees, as the birds leave them — just in the 

 moment when they are going, but still there — are neither oaks, 

 nor beeches (nor ashes, elms, poplars, firs, sycamores, nor any- 

 thing, for the matter of that) but pigeon-trees — that and nothing 

 else. A wonderful sight ! A wonderful thing ! Something in 

 England, after all ! 



December 12th. (Hard weather. Slight snow on the ground.) — 

 I was up before four this morning, and got to the woods where 

 the Rooks roost at 6.20, an hour almost before they even began 

 to fly out. Whilst cycling down I saw a splendid meteorite, or 

 leonide, as they call them now. I did not merely happen to see 

 it, as it was falling, but my attention was attracted by a sudden 

 lighting up of the atmosphere, causing me to look about, when 

 I saw a great luminous green globe, in appearance as large as a 

 football, descending through the sky to my right. It was of a light 

 luminous green, brilliant, but softly brilliant — very distinctive. 

 I can think of no colour like it — earth is not like unto heaven. 



The Pheasant's habit of crouching favours, I think, the view 

 that the brilliant colouring of the male bird has been acquired 

 gradually. See this one now, in this little scanty plantation of 

 stunted oak and hazel-bush, thus trying to elude observation. It 

 is as though a torch should do the same. The bright burnished 

 surface of iridescent hues, the intense red round the eye, are 

 almost as conspicuous amidst the cold wintry surroundings — the 

 leafless trees with the deep glow of sunset beyond, against which 

 they stand like ink. But the hen Pheasant, from the plain stuff 

 of whose plumage the cock's gorgeous tapestry has been evolved, 

 would be well-nigh invisible were she now in his place. How- 

 ever, stillness is, in itself, less conspicuous than motion. After 



