OF FIONOG-LIAT 
THE HOODED CROW 
THE stormy December day was drawing in. 
The wind swept through the wood in gusts, 
with now and then a patter of rain-drops, and 
the black tops of the firs swung to and fro 
against the grey sky. Below, it was still, for 
the boles of the trees were set close enough 
together to shut out the wind ; and the only 
sounds to be heard above the sighing of the 
branches were the "chink-chink" of the black- 
birds as they went to roost in the evergreens, 
and the occasional crack of a gun. 
The pigeons with full crops flew in from the 
open country in scores. They sailed up, head 
to wind, to pitch into the shelter of the fir-tree 
tops, or dashed across the woods forty miles an 
hour to flutter noisily on to the bleaker perches 
of the oak-trees ; and the ground at the feet of 
the man, who stood in the shadow of a big 
laurel bush, was littered with empty cartridge 
cases. 
" It's almost too dark/' said Driscoll, the keeper, 
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