ROOKS.

They used to walk up quite library, where he sat among his And when he went out, as he

I WAS brought up in the society of rooks, and taught from earliest childhood to look upon them as sacred birds. My grandfather never would allow them to be shot. close to the windows of the old books, as much at home as he. often did, to look at the cows, and scratch the pigs with his spud, or give a carrot to his favourite old piebald, now past work, and made free of the paddock for the rest of his days, the rooks knew him well. They filled two clusters of high trees close to the house; the carriage road passed through one, and my grandfather always said he could tell when a stranger came, by the observations of the rooks; their note was then uneasy; if the stranger stopped and made gestures at them with a stick, such as putting it to his shoulder like a gun, the rooks were unequivocally offended. They took short flights from tree to tree, and tremendous break-neck hops among the upper boughs, as much as to say, "Can't the fellow see he is troublesome!"

The language of rooks is very effective. I do not know a more plaintive lamentation than that of the parent birds, while their young ones are being shot. Afraid as they are of a gun, ready as they generally are to be gone directly they catch a glimpse of one, they will not leave the rookery then, but beat the air around the trees from morning till evening, while their full-grown children drop in helpless succession. The young rooks, or perchers, as they are called, leave the nest-which indeed would not hold more than one of them by this time, they having grown as big as the mother bird-about the latter end of May, and sit on neighbouring twigs.

Some morning, while all is going on as usual, after the parents

have been out in the fresh early sunshine gathering food for their families, they see their young ones on the very edge of flight in a few days ready to plunge with them from off the top branches of the elm, and swim for the first time in the air. Just when the critical moment of joy at the perfect success of a hatch has come, and father and grandfather, the young couple now proud of their firstlings, and the many-wintered crow who long has "led the clanging rookery home," are cawing gravely but pleasantly about the joys and trials of the passing season, some brisk human, or inhuman snobs arrive beneath the trees. They have come for the day; evidently, they have brought a hamper with lunch.

"Picnic?" says a two-year old rook, to an elderly bird sitting close by him, who shakes his head.

It is a day's rook shooting. Presently the snobs get out their neat little pea-rifles, and load; and then, there is wailing in the air; the perchers hop and sidle as bullet after bullet whistles by. Phit! crack! puff! phit! thud! down they tumble, and spread their tails, and clench their claws as they lie where they have fallen to the ground.

They will be picked up and counted in the evening-perhaps while the shooters are at lunch.

Meanwhile, the helpless ranks are thinned, and the screaming parent birds fly wildly round and round, now and then plunging down to alight for a moment by their doomed offspring. Ay! yes, down on the very twigs from which several have dropped already, till the agony of fear gets for a few minutes the better of the love of children, and they watch the slaughter from the wing.

The whole scene reminds me more of what the sacking of a town must be, than anything else I know. You can hear it going

on from a great way off-all over the place.

It is remarkable, however, that rooks bring up their young only to part with them for ever. I imagine that a pair of sparrows

could very soon colonize the thatch of an old barn; a couple of rabbits quickly people a warren; but each successive generation of rooks depart, unless-this is the curious part of it-unless they are shot. When the whole hatch throughout the rookery is allowed to grow up, they outnumber the old birds, the original inhabitants, altogether, and emigrate as a matter of course. But, when most are shot, the remnant, the cherished survivors, settle down in the old place; they are not numerous enough to make a colony or a dangerous majority, and so they stay.

Thus the rookeries which are "shot," increase more than those which are let alone. Ours diminished, sometimes for several years together; then the old folks apparently reconciled themselves to a few immigrants, and the census returns looked up again. This year (I paid the old place a visit lately), they are more numerous than usual.

Rooks are gentlemanly birds, and conservative in politics. They respect tradition, and eschew excitement. There is a steadiness and solidity about their way of living and general conversation, which is brought out strikingly by the flippant impertinence of some of their acquaintance and companions. Look at the contrast between the rook and the jackdaw. You always find them together, but the latter are pert and busy chatterers, while the others couverse. To an unpractised eye they look alike at a distance when the grey head is undistinguishable. I think, however, I could pick every jackdaw out of a flight of rooks. They are not only smaller, but the pulsations of the wing are much more rapid. Their note when flying is much more frequent than that of the rooks; indeed, like most chatterboxes, they appear to the inexperienced more numerous and influential than they really are.

Rooks are sociable and domestic-often living near men; they keep their own distance, however, and do not suffer liberties to be taken with them; still, they will take a hint. We had an avenue

of elms, partly overhanging the house, which it was absolutely necessary to prevent the rooks from building in. Sometimes, however, in spite of the traditional prohibition, a couple, young in the world, I suppose, would begin their nest in this avenue. By shooting at it while in progress the birds would not only leave off building there, but pull to pieces all that they had done. It is asserted, I believe with truth, that old rooks are occasionally obliged to punish the thieving propensities of some lazy associate in the same way. I don't mean by shooting, but by destroying the nest constructed with stolen materials. I have several times noticed a great palaver in the rookery during building time, which has resulted in the demolition of a half-built house. It must be a temptation to an unprincipled rook to see many suitable sticks brought up to the tops of the trees, and laid about in preliminary confusion.

Rooks mount guard. You may often notice one sitting up in a tree, while the whole community are grubbing away in a field below. It is marvellous how soon they notice whether you have a gun in your hand or not; so quick is their sight when they know their movements are suspicious, or position equivocal, that the people in my part of the world aver that they can smell even unburnt gunpowder from afar.

But when they know they are doing no harm, they approach close to man, following the plough at the very heels of the peasant, wheeling round his head, and pouncing down on the worms and grubs which are discovered in the fresh turned furrow. Then their caw is fat and cheery, like pleasant dinner talk.

They are often accused, like others, of doing harm when they are actually conferring good. Indeed, they are one of the farmer's best protectors against the ravages of the wire-worm, from which they often help most materially to free the crop.

It is true that a rook cannot always resist the temptation of fresh-set potatoes and dibbled corn; it looks so tempting in the

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neat circular hole, that he sometimes picks it out, though probably to look for grubs. A cruel trap has been thus sometimes laid for him; viz. a funnel of paper, fitting the conical hole made in the ground by the dibble, but smeared inside with bird-lime. When the intrusive rook takes out his head he brings out this on it, like a cap drawn over the eyes Thus blinded, he flies up, round and round, till he is worn out, and drops, like what sportsmen call a "towered bird."

But the means mostly taken to keep rooks from doing mischief are less severe. It is quite a calling for boys to "Holloa the rooks" during seed and spring time. Sometimes the urchin has a gun, but the sly thieves soon find it won't go off, or that, if it does, the result is more alarming than dangerous. Sometimes the boy carries a dead rook, which he throws up into the air as high as he can. A few nervous birds think this the rising of their own appointed sentry, and make off.

It is very pleasant to watch the rooks at play; no animals enjoy the first fine days of early spring or late winter with greater glee. They then romp about in the bare trees like kittens. But I think that on the whole they find most pleasure in autumn. I remember one late September day, watching them for a long time. The air was perfectly still-you could hear the light tap of a falling leaf, as it rustled to the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky, but, as it seemed, unusual floods of warm silent sunshine. The rooks made a great to do for a time; they were at some council and could not agree. Presently, however, they rose in a body and began flying upwards in wide circles till they looked like a parcel of little birds high up in the air-still sweeping round and round. Then, all at once, the whole community slid off in the same direction with level wing, till they passed away out of sight. They had flown so high to get this glorious launch. Their notes when they dashed off down the air slope, were a chorus of corvine