THE ROAD TO SPRING 
7 
On the topmost twig of the walnut-tree balances a 
huge rook in his solemn black soutane, curtseying and 
cawing in grotesque protestation. Why he so troubles 
deaf Heaven with his bootless cries I cannot think, unless 
it may be from sheer aggrievement at finding all the 
plunder gone. But I believe it is I, forsooth, who have 
the better cause of complaint, for he and his gang it was 
that robbed me of at least the half of my harvest this year. 
Many a strange sacerdotal-seeming feast have I surprised 
in my own orchard only some half an acre from here, 
when the nuts were at their best. But some folk have 
no sense of shame, and it is not the cowl that makes the 
monk. These gentlemen presume too much upon the 
sombre propriety of the black robe, I think. Go hunt 
at the tree-foot, friend, amid the tangled ground ivy and 
the fallen leaves, and it may chance to you, as often 
aforetime to me, to find a nut or two still sound and 
sweet within. It will profit you not one whit to keep 
curtseying and crying upon the clouds. 
“ Quest-ce qui passe ici si tard? Gai , gai, gai ! ” rings 
the old rhyme, brought back to mind just now by a lisp¬ 
ing, whistling assemblage of shiny-coated starlings en¬ 
gaged in some noisy commerce or other, big with that 
pose of false business habits which could deceive no one, 
but above all abounding in gaiety. Early or late, the 
starling is always gay, which is of course to be counted 
unto him for righteousness. Upon the whole I find my 
attitude towards him undergoing a gradual change. 
Time was when I saw nothing but his ill qualities—his 
vulgarity, his greed, his blatant pushfulness, his friendly 
toleration of my enemies the sparrows—and could not 
