of them seem similarly influenced at or about the same moment of time. In fact, they often act as though an actual wind had swept them in this or that direction—when this cannot have been the case, I hasten to add.
"February 10th.—A hard black frost, bitterly, bitingly cold. At 5.30 a.m. I steal into the dark plantation, and silently take my place at the foot of one of the tall, sighing trees. Softly as I try to move, I disturb some of the sleeping birds, who make heavy plunges amongst the trees, or beat about, for a little, through 'the palpable obscure' above them. But, leaning against the trunk, I am now rock-still, and soon they settle down again, though 'talking'—some nervous inquiry—continues a little, breaking out first here and then there, around where I sit. I soon notice, however, that these outbursts have no relation to my whereabouts, but take place over the whole plantation, and I come to the conclusion that they have nothing to do with the late disturbance, which is now, evidently, forgotten. The night, in fact, is passing, and the rooks are beginning to be rooks. Such noises in the utter darkness, amidst the shroud-black firs, sound ghostly, and may, perhaps, have given rise to the idea of the night-raven. In the winter, it must be remembered, it is night, practically, for some time after the peasantry of any country are up and about; nor can I conceive of any sounds more calculated to give rise to superstitious ideas than some of those I hear about me. In the real night, too, a belated peasant might easily get a note or two from some awakening rook, and, both by virtue of time and place, and the actual quality of the
