WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
crossed the sea by night, rushing through the 
air a hundred miles an hour, with the certainty 
that a north-easter from Spitzbergen would 
overtake them if they lagged behind, for 
already the lips of the waves were whitened 
below them a portent of the strong, following 
wind. This little party of ten was but one 
link in that great chain of crows which for 
many days is drawn westwards when the winter 
famine begins to pinch in the East-country, 
and the polar winds curdle the snow. They 
croaked to keep in touch with one another as 
they flew, but the gale drowned their voices, 
and when day dawned and they saw dry land 
below them, two of their number had dis- 
appeared. 
Then came three weeks of roving over the fells 
until the north-easter blew again, and, obeying 
its impulse, they travelled westwards once 
more until another and narrower sea was 
crossed mere child's play to such wings as 
theirs and they came at length to the Irish 
shore. 
But one had been shot on a Yorkshire moor, 
and another had been poisoned by a Welsh 
shepherd, for every man's hand is against the 
hooded crow. He is an Ishmaelite, a wanderer, 
an outlaw, to be trapped, or shot, or poisoned, 
by anyone who is cunning enough to circum- 
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