"At 4.30 I leave the woods and find the rooks gathered in the same place as yesterday, but in far less numbers. Shortly, a large band flies up and swoops down with all sorts of turns and twists, and turns right over in the air—a striking sight, the air full of the rushing sound of their wings—a birdstorm, a black descending whirlwind. At 4.35 the rooks all fly from the ground into a small clump of fir-trees near. Great numbers of other ones are flying up and settling in a plantation of small firs, fringing another part of the field, quite filling it. The snow seems to drive them from the ground, their conclave to-day must be held in the trees.
"They are gathering, now, from all parts, filling the trees round about the ploughed land—now all white—flying in flocks about them, then descending into them again.
"Still coming and coming out of the sunset, specks growing into birds. The stern, snow-covered landscape, the red glow of the sunset, and the black, labouring pinions against it make a fine winter scene.
"4.37.—Back at the larches, and only just in time to stand concealed within them, before the rooks are there. All seem coming, a black, flying multitude. They have reached the larches and fly about over them in wide, sedate circles, coming in relays, as last night. Joyous voices—innumerable multitudes—a torrent of wings! All in a broad, rapid, streaming flight to the larches. They sweep, dash, circle and eddy over them, black flashes in the deepening gloom. They sweep into them, and the snow, swept by their
