ing they kiss and part, and, between whiles, the poor longing grove stands lifeless, dreams and waits. But how different would it seem if the rooks were a crowd of men—nice, cheery, jovial, picturesque, civilised men! Thank heaven, they are a crowd of rooks!
I will now quote from my journal:
"Walking over some arable land that rises gently into a slight hill, my attention is attracted by a number of rooks hanging in the air, just above a small clump of elm-trees on its crest. They keep alternately rising and falling as they circle over the trees, often perching amongst them, but soon gliding upwards from them again. A very common action is for two to hover, one above another, getting gradually quite close together, when both sinking, one may almost say falling, rapidly, the upper pursues the under one, striking at it—either in jest or earnest, but probably the former—both with beak and claws. The downward plunge would end in a long swoop, first to right or left, and then again upwards, during which the two would become separated and mingled with the general troop. This action, more or less defined and perfect, was continued again and again, and there were generally one or more pairs of birds engaged in it. The rest rose and fell, many together, and obviously enjoying each other's society, but without any special conjunction of two or more in a joint manoeuvre. Their descents were often of a rushing nature, and accompanied with such sudden twists and turns as, sometimes, seemed to amount to a complete somersault in the air—though as to this I will not be too certain. The whole seemed the outcome of pure enjoyment, and seen in the clear
