speck comes, until at last we find ourselves standing under a rook
which flies with great difficulty. The poor rascal looks most
disreputable, for his tail has evidently been shot away, and he is
wounded. He drops on to a perch, but not before he has run the
gauntlet of several lines of sharp eyes. The poor bird sits on his
branch swinging weakly to and fro, humping up his shoulders in
woebegone style. There is a rustle among the flock, a sharp exchange
of caws, and one may almost imagine the questions and answers which
pass. Circumstances prevent us from knowing the rookish system of
nomenclature; but we may suppose the wounded fellow to be called
Ishmael. Caw number one says, "Did you notice anything queer about
Ishmael as he passed?" "Yes. Why, he's got no tail!" "He'll be rather
a disgrace to the family if he tries to go with us into Sussex on
Tuesday." "Frightful! He's been fooling about within range of some
farming lout's gun. The lazy, useless wretch never did know the
difference between a gun and a broom!" "Serves him right! Let's speak
to the chief about him." The chief considers the matter solemnly and
sorrowfully, and then may be understood to say, "Sorry Ishmael's in
trouble, but we can't acknowledge him. There's an end of the matter.
You Surrey crow, take a dozen of our mates, and drive that Ishmael
away." The wounded bird knows his doom. He fumbles his way through the
branches, and flies off zig-zag and low; but the flight soon mob him.
They laugh at him, and one can positively tell that they are
chattering in derision. Presently one of them buffets him; and that is
the signal for a general assault. Quick as lightning, one of the black
cowards makes a vicious drive with his iron beak, and flies off with a
triumphant caw; another and another squawk at the wretch, and then
stab him, until at last, like a draggled kite, Ishmael sinks among the
ferns and passes away, while the assassins fly back and tell how they
settled the fool who could not keep the shot out of his carcass. If