It was now late autumn, and food was scarce.

When you see one raven, says Father Brehm, you need only look round
to discover a second.

But you might have looked long enough where this wise old raven
came flying; he was, and remained, alone. And without troubling
about anything or uttering a sound, he sped on his strong
coal-black wings through the dense rain-mist, steering due west.

But as he flew, evenly and meditatively, his sharp eyes searched
the landscape beneath, and the old bird was full of chagrin.

Year by year the little green and yellow patches down there
increased in number and size; rood after rood was cut out of the
heathery waste, little houses sprang up with red-tiled roofs and
low chimneys breathing oily peat-reek. Men and their meddling
everywhere!

He remembered how, in the days of his youth--several winters ago,
of course--this was the very place for a wide-awake raven with a
family: long, interminable stretches of heather, swarms of leverets
and little birds, eider-ducks on the shore with delicious big eggs,
and tidbits of all sorts abundant as heart could desire.

Now he saw house upon house, patches of yellow corn-land and green
meadows; and food was so scarce that a gentlemanly old raven had to
fly miles and miles for a paltry sow's ear.