WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
pies passed through the bushes, and 
the chaffinches were now so eager 
that they scarcely troubled to scold, 
as was their custom, as the pies 
pushed past them. The redwing 
squabbled and jostled with the rest 
until his crop was full, and then he 
huddled on a twig and languidly 
preened himself. 
At noon the sky cleared, and with 
the snow the bird stream ceased. 
Then the great march inland began. Shacaim, 
with some of his clan, crossed the rush-grown 
stream which creeps along at the foot of the 
sandhills, and beyond which lie the deep 
woods and mellow pastures of Coolnabrock. 
But it was no land of promise that winter's 
day. First of all they found low sycamores 
dreariest of all trees in rain or snow. Their 
drab leaves covered the ground, and snow 
clung to the leeward side of their trunks. They 
were utterly empty but for a hungry robin or 
two. However, the redwings kept on, for the 
stronger-flighted fieldfares flew steadily over the 
trees as if they sighted something better ahead. 
Besides, there was no going back. The sea lay 
behind, and the wind still blew inland. Perforce 
they went on. 
By and by the sycamores merged into oaks, 
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