awful warning to his friends, and an object of great commiseration to
the squire. But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks have,
upon the whole, a happy holiday life of it. When their young are reared,
and fairly launched upon their native element, the air, the cares of the
old folks seem over, and they resume all their aristocratical dignity
and idleness. I have envied them the enjoyment which they appear to have
in their ethereal heights, sporting with clamorous exultation about
their lofty bowers; sometimes hovering over them, sometimes partially
alighting upon the topmost branches, and there balancing with
outstretched wings, and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes they seem to
take a fashionable drive to the church, and amuse themselves by circling
in airy rings about its spire: at other times a mere garrison is left at
home to mount guard in their stronghold at the grove, while the rest
roam abroad to enjoy the fine weather. About sunset the garrison gives
notice of their return; their faint cawing will be heard from a great
distance, and they will be seen far off like a sable cloud, and then
nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring home. Then they perform
several grand circuits in the air, over the Hall and garden, wheeling
closer and closer, until they gradually settle down upon the grove, when
a prodigious cawing takes place, as though they were relating their
day's adventures.

I like at such times to walk about these dusky groves, and hear the
various sounds of these airy people roosted so high above me. As the
gloom increases, their conversation subsides, and they seem to be
gradually dropping asleep; but every now and then there is a querulous
note, as if some one was quarrelling for a pillow, or a little more of
the blanket. It is late in the evening before they completely sink to
repose, and then their old anchorite neighbour, the owl, begins his
lonely hootings from his bachelor's hall in the wood.