For the first two hundred yards the travelling is easy because of this very scantiness of the fern and underwood; but then there seems to rise up a thick wall of vegetation. To push a way through the ever-thickening bracken becomes more and more laborious; there is scarce a choice but to follow a winding narrow path, green with gra.s.s and moss and strewn with leaves, in and out and round the impenetrable thickets.

Whither it leads--if, indeed anywhere--there is no sign. The precise sense of direction is quickly lost, and then glancing round and finding nothing but fern and bush and tree on every hand, it dawns upon the mind that this is really a forest--not a wood, where a few minutes either way will give you a glimpse of the outer light through the ash-poles.

Other narrow paths--if they can be called paths which show no trace of human usage--branch off from the original one, till by-and-by it becomes impossible to recognise one from the other. The first has been lost indeed long ago, without its having been observed: for the bracken is now as high as the shoulders, and the eye cannot penetrate many yards on either side. Under a huge oak at last there is an open s.p.a.ce, circular, and corresponding with the outer circ.u.mference of its branches: carpeted with dark-green gra.s.s and darker moss, thickly strewn with brown leaves and acorns that have dropped from their cups. A wall of fern encloses it: the path loses itself in the gra.s.s because it is itself green.

Several such paths debouch here--which is the right one to follow? It is pure chance. On again, with more tall bracken, thorn thickets, and maple bushes, and noting now the strange absence of living things. Not a bird rises startled from the boughs, not a rabbit crosses the way; for in the forest, as in the fields, there are places haunted and places deserted, save by occasional pa.s.sing visitors. Suddenly the bracken ceases, and the paths disappear under a thick grove of beeches, whose dead leaves and beechmast seem to have smothered vegetation.

Insensibly the low ground rises again, the brake and bushes and underwood reappear, but the trees grow thinner and farther apart; they are mainly oaks, which like to stand separate in their grandeur. There is one dead oak all alone in the midst of the underwood, with a wide s.p.a.ce around it. A vast grey trunk, split and riven and hollow, with a single pointed branch rising high above it, dead, too, and _grey_: not a living twig, not so much as a brown leaf, gives evidence of lingering life. The oak is dead; but even in his death he rules, and the open s.p.a.ce around him shows how he once overshadowed and prevented the growth of meaner trees. More oaks, then a broad belt of beeches, and out suddenly into an opening.

It is but a stone's-throw across--a level mead walled in with tail trees, whose leaves in myriads lie on the brown-tinted gra.s.s. One great thicket only grows in the midst of it. The nights are chilly here, as elsewhere; but in the day, the winds being kept off by the trees and underwood, it becomes quite summer-like, and the leaves turn to their most brilliant hues. The stems of the bracken are yellow; the fronds vary from pale green and gold, commingled, to a reddish bronze. The hawthorn leaves are light yellow, some touched with red, others almost black. Maple bushes glow with gold. Here the beeches show great spots of orange; yonder the same tree, from the highest branch to the lowest, has become a rich brown. Brown too, and buff, are the oaks; but the tints so shade into each other that it is hard to separate and name them.

It is not long before sounds and movements indicate that the forest around is instinct with life. Often it happens that more may be observed while stationary in one spot than while traversing a mile or two; for many animals crouch or remain perfectly still, and consequently invisible, when they hear a footstep. There is a slight tapping sound-- it seems quite near, but it is really some little way off; and presently a woodp.e.c.k.e.r crosses the open, flying with a wave-like motion, now dipping and now rising. Soon afterwards a second pa.s.ses: there are numbers of them scattered about the forest. A clattering noise comes from the trees on the left--it is a wood-pigeon changing his perch; he has settled again, for now his hollow note is heard, and he always calls while perching. A loud screeching and chattering deeper in the forest tells that the restless jays are there. A missel-thrush comes and perches on a branch right overhead, uttering his harsh note, something like turning a small rattle. But he stays a moment only: he is one of the most suspicious of birds, and has instantly observed that there is some one near. A magpie crosses the mead and disappears.

Something moving yonder in the gra.s.s catches the eye; it is a reddish bushy tail, apparently without a body, yet held nearly upright, and moving hither and thither in a quick, nervous way. Suddenly down it goes, and the squirrel raises himself on his haunches to listen to some suspicious sound, holding his forefeet something like a kangaroo. Then he recommences searching and the tail rises, alone visible above the tall gra.s.s. Now he bounds, and as his body pa.s.ses through the air the tail extends behind and droops so that he seems to form an arch. After working along ten or fifteen yards in one direction, he stops, turns sharp round, and comes all the way back again. Some distance farther, under the trees, two more are frisking about, and a rabbit has come to nibble the gra.s.s in the open.

Looking across to the other side, where the fern recommences, surely there was a movement as if a branch was shaken; and a branch that, on second thought, is in such a position that it cannot be connected with any tree. Again, and then the head and neck of a stag are lifted above the fern. He is attacking a tree--rubbing his antlers against a low branch, much as if he were fighting it. He is not a hundred yards off; it would be easy to get nearer, surely, by stalking him carefully, gliding from tree trunk to tree trunk under the beeches.

At the first step the squirrel darts to the nearest beech; and although it seems to have no boughs or projections low down, he is up it in a moment, going round the trunk in a spiral. A startling clatter resounds overhead: it is a wood-pigeon that had come quietly and settled on a tree close by, without being noticed, and now rises in great alarm. But it is a sound to which the deer are so accustomed that they take no notice. There is little underwood here beneath the beeches, but the beechmast lies thick, and there are dead branches, which if stepped on will crack loudly.

A weasel rushes past almost under foot; he has been following his prey so intently as not to have observed where he was going. He utters a strange startled 'yap,' or something between that and the noise usually made by the lips to encourage a horse, and makes all speed into the fern. These are the happy hunting-grounds of the weasels.

During spring and summer--so long as the gra.s.s, clover, and corn crops are standing, and are the cover in which partridges and other birds have their nests--the weasels and stoats haunt the fields, being safe from observation (while in the crops) and certain of finding a dinner. Then, if you watch by a gap in the hedge, or look through a gateway into the cornfield, you may be almost certain of seeing one at least; in a morning's walk in summer I have often seen two or three weasels in this way. The young rabbits and leverets are of course their prey also. But after the corn is cut you may wait and watch a whole day in the fields and not see a weasel. They have gone to the thick mounds, the covers, woods, and forests, and therein will hunt the winter through.

The stag is still feeding peacefully; he is now scarce fifty yards away, when he catches sight and is off. His body as he bounds seems to keep just above the level of the fern. It is natural to follow him, though of course in vain; the mead is left behind, and once more there is a wall of fern on either side of the path. After a while a broad green drive opens, and is much more easy to walk along. But where does it go?

for presently it divides into two, and then the fork pursued again branches. Hush! what is that clattering? It sounds in several directions, but nothing is visible.

Then a sharp turn of the drive opens on a long narrow gra.s.sy valley, which is crowded with deer. Parties of thirty or forty are grazing; and yonder, farther away by themselves, there must be nearly a hundred fawns. Standing behind a tree, it is a pleasant sight to watch them; but after a while comes back the thought, dismissed contemptuously long since--the afternoon is advancing, and is it possible to be lost? The truth is we are lost for the time.

It is impossible to retrace one's footsteps, the paths and drives are so intricate, and cross and branch so frequently. There are no landmarks.

Perhaps from the rising ground across the valley a view may be obtained.

On emerging into the open, the whole herd of deer and fawns move slowly into the forest and disappear. From the hill there is nothing visible but trees. If a tree be climbed to get a look-out, there is still nothing but trees. Following a green drive as a forlorn hope, there comes again the rattling as of clubs and spears, and strange grunting sounds. It is the bucks fighting; and they are not altogether safe to approach. But time is going on; unless we can soon discover the way, we may have to remain till the tawny wood-owls flit round the trees.

There comes the tinkle-tinkle of a bell: a search shows two or three cows, one of which, after the fashion of the old time, carries a bell.

She comes and b.u.t.ts one playfully, and insists on her poll being rubbed.

Then there is more grunting, but of a different kind--this time easily recognised: it is a herd of swine searching for the beechmast and acorns. With them, fortunately, comes the swineherd--a lad, who shows a drive which leads to the nearest edge of the forest.

Half an hour after leaving the swineherd, a rabbit is found sitting on his haunches, motionless, with the head drooping on one side. He takes no notice--he is dying. Just beneath one ear is a slight trace of blood--it is the work of a weasel, who fled on hearing approaching footsteps. Soon a film must form over the beautiful eye of the hunted creature: let us in mercy strike him a sharp blow on the head with the heavy end of the walking-stick, and so spare him the prolonged sense of death. A hundred yards further is a gate, and beyond that an arable field. On coming near the gate a hawk glides swiftly downwards over the hedge that there joins the forest. A cloud of sparrows instantly rise from the stubble, and fly chirping in terror to the hedge for shelter; but one is too late, the hawk has him in his talons. Yonder is a row of wheat ricks, the fresh straw with which they have just been covered contrasting with the brown thatch of the farmhouse in the hollow. There a refreshing gla.s.s of ale is forthcoming, and the way is pointed out.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE ROOKERY--BUILDING NESTS--YOUNG BIRDS--ROOK-SHOOTING--STEALING ROOKS--ANTICS IN THE AIR--MODE OF FLIGHT--WHITE ROOKS.

The city built by the rooks in the elms of the great pasture field (the Warren, near Wick farmhouse) is divided into two main parts; the trees standing in two rows, separated by several hundred yards of sward. But the inhabitants appear to be all more or less related, for they travel amicably in the same flock and pay the usual visit to the trees at the same hour. Some scattered elms form a line of communication between the chief quarters, and each has one or more nests in it. Besides these, the oaks in the hedgerows surrounding the field support a few nests, grouped three or four, in close neighbourhood. In some trees near the distant ash copse there are more nests whose owners probably sprang from the same stock, but were exiled, or migrated, and do not hold much communion with the capital.

In early days men seem to have frequently dug their entrenchments or planted their stockades on the summit of hills. To the rooks their trees are their hills, giving security from enemies. The wooden houses in the two main streets are evidently of greater antiquity than those erected in the outlying settlements. The latter are not large or thick: they are clearly the work of one, or at most two, seasons only; for it is noticeable that when rooks build at a distance from the centre of population they are some time before they finally decide on a site, abandoning one place after another. But the nests forming the princ.i.p.al streets are piled up to a considerable height--fresh twigs being added every year--and are also thick and bulky. The weight of the whole must be a heavy burden to the trees.

Much skill is shown in the selection of the branches upon which the foundations are laid. In the first place, the branch must fork sufficiently to hold the bottom twigs firmly and to give some side-support. Then it must be a branch more or less vertical, or it would swing with the wind too much up and down as well as to and fro.

Thirdly, there should be a clear or nearly clear s.p.a.ce above the nest to give easy access, and to afford room for it to increase in size annually. For this reason, perhaps, nests are generally placed near the top or outer sides of the tree, where the boughs are smaller, and every upward extension reaches a clearer place. Fourthly, the bough ought not to be too stiff and firm; it should yield a little, and sway easily, though only in a small degree, to the breeze. If too stiff, in strong gales the nest runs the risk of being blown clean out of the tree.

Fifthly, no other branch must rub against the one bearing the princ.i.p.al weight of the nest, for that would loosen the twigs in time, and dislocate the entire structure. Finally, rooks like an adjacent bough on which the bird, not actually engaged in incubation can perch and 'caw' to his mate, and which is also useful to alight on when bringing food for the young.

It may be that the difficulty of finding trees which afford all these necessary conditions is one reason why rooks who settle at a distance from their city seem long before they can please themselves. The ingenuity exercised in the selection of the bough and in the placing of the twigs is certainly very remarkable. When the wind blows furiously you may see the nest moving gently, riding on the swaying boughs, while one of the birds perches on a branch close by, and goes up and down like a boat on the waves. Except by the concussion of branches beating hard against the nest, it is rarely broken; up to a certain point it would seem as if the older nests are the firmest, perhaps because of their weight. Sometimes one which has been blown down in the winter--when the absence of protecting leaves gives the wind more power on them--retains its general form even after striking against branches in its descent and after collision with the earth.

Elms are their favourite trees for building in. Oak and ash are also used, but where there are sufficient elms they seem generally preferred.

These trees, as a rule, grow higher than any others ordinarily found in the fields, and are more frequently seen in groups, rows, or avenues, thus giving the rook facilities for placing a number of nests in close neighbourhood. The height of the elm affords greater safety, and the branches are perhaps better suited for their purpose.

After building in an elm for many years--perhaps ever since the owner can remember--rooks will suddenly desert it. There are the old nests still; but no effort is made to repair them, and no new ones are made.

The winds and storms presently loosen the framework, about which no care is now taken, and portions are blown down. Then by-and-by the discovery is made that the tree is rapidly dying. The leaves do not appear, or if they do they wither and turn yellow before Midsummer: gradually the branches decay and fall of their own weight or before the wind.

No doubt if anyone had carefully examined the tree he would have observed signs of decay long before the rooks abandoned it; but those who pa.s.s the same trees day after day for years do not observe minute changes, or, if they do, as nature is slow in her movements, get so accustomed to the sight of the fungi about the base, and the opening in the bark where the decomposing touchwood shows, as to think that it will always be so. At last the rooks desert it, and then the truth is apparent.

Their nests, being heavy, are not safe on branches up which the strengthening sap no longer rises; and in addition to the nest there is the weight of the sitting-bird, and often that of the other who perches temporarily on the edge. As the branches die they become stiff, and will not bend to the gale this immobility is also dangerous to the nest.

So long as the bough yields and sways gently--not much, but still a little--the strong winds do no injury. When the bough becomes rigid, the broad--side or wall of the nest offers an unyielding surface, which is accordingly blown away.

The nests which contain young are easily distinguished, despite the height, by the almost continuous cry for food. The labour of feeding the voracious creatures must be immense, and necessity may partly account for the greater boldness of the old birds at that season. By counting the nests from which the cry proceeds the condition of the rookery is ascertained, and the amount of sport it will afford reckoned with some certainty. By noting the nests from which the cry arose last, it is known which trees to avoid in the rook-shooting; for the young do not all come to maturity at the same time, and there are generally a dozen or so which it is best to leave a week or a fortnight later than the rest.

When the young birds begin to quit the nests, and are observed perching on the tree or fluttering from branch to branch, they must not be left much longer before shooting, or they will wander and be lost. A very few days will then make all the difference; and so it has often happened that men expecting to make a great bag have been quite disappointed, notwithstanding the evident number of nests; the shooting has been held a day or so too late. The young birds get the use of their wings very quickly, and their instinct rather seems to be to wander than to remain in the immediate vicinity of their birthplace.

Some think that the old birds endeavour to entice them away as much as possible, knowing what is coming. It may be doubted if that is the case with respect to the very young birds; but when the young ones are capable of something like extended flight, and can cross a field without much difficulty, I think the parents do attempt to lead them away. When the shooting is in progress, if you will go a little distance from the rookery, out of the excitement of the sport, you may sometimes see two old rooks, one on each side of a young one, cawing to it with all their might. The young bird is, perhaps, on the ground, or on a low hedge, and the old birds are evidently endeavouring to get it to move. Yet they have not learned the only way in which that can be done--i.e. by starting themselves and flying a short distance, and waiting, when the young bird will almost invariably follow.

If you approach the trio the two old birds at once take flight, seeing your gun, and the young bird in a few seconds goes after them. Had they the sense to repeat this operation, they might often draw the young one away from danger; as for their cawing, it does not seem to be quite understood by their offspring, who have hardly yet learned their own language.

To appreciate this effort on the part of the old birds, it must be recollected that immediately after the first shot the great ma.s.s of the old rooks fly off in alarm. They go to some distance and then wheel round and come back at an immense height, and there, collected in loose order, circle round and round, cawing as they sail. For an old rook to remain in or near the rookery when once the firing has commenced is the exception, and must be a wonderful effort of moral courage, for of all birds rooks seem most afraid of a gun; and naturally so, having undergone, when themselves young, a baptism of fire. Those that escape slaughter are for the most part early birds that come to maturity before the majority, and so leave the trees before the date fixed for shooting arrived, or acquire a power of flight sufficient to follow their parents on the first alarm to a safe distance. They have, therefore, a good opportunity of witnessing the destruction of their cousins, and do not forget the lesson.

Although the young birds upon getting out of the nest under ordinary conditions seem to like to wander, yet if they are driven out or startled by the shot they do not then at once endeavour to make for the open country or to spread abroad, but appear rather to cling to the place, as if the old nests could shelter them. After a while they begin to understand the danger of this proceeding, and half an hour's rapid firing causes the birds to spread about and get into the trees in the hedges at some distance. There of course they are pursued, or killed the next day, three-quarters of a mile or more away from home. It is rare for old rooks to get shot, for the reason above stated: they rise into the air out of reach. Those that are killed are generally such as have lingered in the hope to save a young bird, and are mistaken and shot as young themselves.

Young birds may be easily distinguished by their slow uncertain flight and general appearance of not knowing exactly where to go or what to do.

They are specially easy to pick out if you see them about to perch on a tree. They go at the tree anyhow, crash in among the branches, and rather fall on a perch than choose it. The old bird always enters a tree carefully, as if he did not like to ruffle his feathers, and knew precisely what sort of bough he preferred to settle on. Close to the rookery there is no need to wait to pick out the young birds, because they are all sure to be young birds there; but, as observed, old birds will linger with young ones at a little distance, and may then be mistaken--as also on the following day, when sportsmen go round to pick up the outsiders, and frequently come on old and young together. The old bird will not sit and let you aim at him perching; if you shoot him, it must be on the wing. The young bird will sit and let you pick him off with a crossbow, and even if a cartridge singes his wing he will sometimes only hop a yard or two along the boughs.

Though hard hit and shattered with shot, they will cling to the branches convulsively, seeming to hang by the crook of the claw or by muscular contraction even when perfectly dead, till lifted up by a shot fired directly underneath, or till the bough itself is skilfully cut off by a cartridge and both come down together. The young feathers being soft, and the quills not so hard as in older birds, scarcely a rook-shooting ever goes by without some one claiming to have made a tremendous long shot, which is quite possible, as it does not require many pellets or much force behind them.

On dropping a rook, probably at some distance from the rookery, where the men are whose duty it is to collect the slain, beware of carrying the bird; let him lie, or at most throw him upon a bramble bush in a conspicuous spot till a boy comes round. Rooks are perfectly infested with vermin, which in a few minutes will pa.s.s up their legs on to your hand, and cause an unpleasant irritation, though it is only temporary; for the insects cannot exist long away from the bird.

The young birds are occasionally stolen from the nests, notwithstanding the difficulty of access. Young labourers will climb the trees, though so large that they can scarcely grasp the trunk, and with few branches, and those small for some height; for elms are often stripped up the trunk to make the timber grow straight and free from the great branches called 'limbs.' Even when the marauder is in the tree he has some difficulty in getting at the nests, which are placed where the boughs diminish in size. Climbing-irons used to be sometimes employed for the purpose. As elm trees are so conspicuous, these thieving practices cannot well be carried on while it is light. So the rook-poachers go up the trees in the dead of night; and as the old rooks would make a tremendous noise and so attract attention, they carry a lantern with them, the light from which silences the birds. So long as they can see a light they will not caw.

The time selected to rob a rookery is generally just before the date fixed for the shooting, because the young birds are of little use for cooking till about ready to fly. The trick, it is believed, has often been played for the mere pleasure of spiting the owner, the very night previous to the rook-shooting party being chosen. These robberies of young rooks are much less frequent than they used to be. One reason why those who possess any property in the country do not like to see a labouring man with a gun is because he will shoot an old rook (and often eat it), if he gets the opportunity, without reference to times or seasons, whether they are building or not.

The young rooks that escape being shot seem to be fed, or partly fed, by the old birds for some time after they can fly well and follow their parents. It is easy to know when there are young rooks in a flock feeding in a field. At the first glance the rooks look scattered about, without any order, each independent of the other. But in a few minutes it will be noticed that here and there are groups of three, which keep close together. These are formed of the parents and the young bird-- apparently as big and as black as themselves--which they feed now and then. The young bird, by attending to their motions, learns where to find the best food. As late as July trios like this may sometimes be seen.

Besides the young birds that have the good fortune to pa.s.s unscathed through the dangers of rook-shooting day, and escape being knocked over afterwards, some few get off on account of having been born earlier than the majority, thus possessing a stronger power of flight. Some nests are known to be more forward than the others; but although the young birds may be on the point of departing, they are not killed because the noise of the firing would disturb the whole settlement. So that it becomes the rook's interest to incubate a little in advance of the rest.

After a few months they are put into another terrible fright--on the first of September. Guns are going off in all directions, no matter where they turn, so that they find it impossible to feel at ease, and instead of feeding wheel about in the air, or settle on the trees.

The glossy plumage of the rook will sometimes, when seen at a certain angle, reflect the sun's rays in such a manner that instead of looking black the bird appears clothed in shining light: it is as if the feathers were polished like a mirror. In feeding they work in a grave, steady way--a contrast to the restless starlings who so often accompany them. They do not put a sentinel in a tree to give warning of the approach of an enemy. The whole flock is generally on the ground together, and, if half-a-dozen perch awhile on the trees, they soon descend. So far are they from setting a watch, that if you pa.s.s up outside the hedge to the leeward, on any side except where the wind would carry the noise of footsteps to them, it is easy to get close-- sometimes, if they are feeding near the hedge, within three or four yards. Of course if a rook happens to be in a tree it will not be possible to do so; but they do not set a sentinel for this purpose.

Rooks, in a general way, seem more at their ease in the meadows than in the arable fields. In the latter they are constantly fired at, if only with blank charges, to alarm them from the seed besides being shouted at and frightened with clappers. The bird-keeper's efforts are, however, of very little avail. If he puts the flock up on one side of the field, they lazily sail to a distant corner, and when he gets there go back again. They are fully aware that he cannot injure them if they keep a certain distance; but this perpetual driving to and fro makes them suspicious. In the meadows it is rare for them to be shot at, and they are consequently much less timid.

At the same time they can perfectly well distinguish a gun from a walking-stick. If you enter a meadow with a gun under your arm, and find a flock feeding, they immediately cease searching for food and keep a strict watch on your movements; and if you approach, they are off directly. If you carry a walking-stick only, you may pa.s.s within thirty yards sometimes, and they take little notice, provided you use the stick in the proper way. But now lift it, and point it at the nearest rook, and in an instant he is up with a 'caw' of alarm--though he knows it is not a gun--and flies just above the surface of the ground till he considers himself safe from possibility of danger. Often the whole flock will move before that gesture. It is noticeable that no wild creatures, birds or animals, like anything pointed at them: you may swing your stick freely, but point it, and off goes the finch that showed no previous alarm. So too, dogs do not seem easy if a stick is pointed at them.

Rooks are easily approached in the autumn, when gorging the acorns.