laughter. Two or three fell out, and came grumbling back; they had forgotten something, I suppose, or were bilious and unsociable -all the rest were absent for the day.

Rooks do not always sleep at home. Sometimes the trees in which they may be said to live are deserted at night; generally when they are absent it is in company. You may frequently see many hundreds about sunset flying steadily in one direction; they are going to bed. Their only thought when turning in is to go to sleep with their noses to the wind. You may see them all settling down; but if there is any breeze, every one will point towards the quarter whence it comes, and go to sleep on his perch with the equanimity of M. Blondin.

Rooks' nests are built to last, being merely repaired from year to year. Indeed, I have known them put in "a stitch in time," even before the usual building season commenced.

They choose the sites for their dwellings with much apparent caprice-sometimes fixing on low accessible firs, sometimes even solitary trees in the heart of London itself, though generally they prefer the "windy elms" near a country-house. They lay four or five eggs, of a dull blotchy green, and place their nests close together on the tops of whatever trees they select for the purpose. Thus they are obliged to look very sharp after their proper sticks, and punish theft with strict severity-sometimes even trespass; for they are occasionally as jealous of new comers, who try to settle honestly among them, as they are indignant at the discovery of fraud among the recognized members of their own community: in some cases uniting to drive them quite away, in others only pulling their half-built nest to pieces, when they try to build them too near to those of the original proprietors. But, on the whole, they agree pretty well among themselves.

MORE ABOUT ROOKS.

EVERYBODY knows that the rook is regarded as a very sagacious bird, and the people in Kent (I believe) have a saying, "As gay as a rook on a Sunday;" the rooks being said to know that day from any other, as a day on which no shooting is allowed, and one in which, therefore, they may relax their customary vigilance, and go about without fear. Be this as it may, they are, on any other day at least, extremely difficult to shoot. I remember well, as a boy, having good proof of this.

An uncle of mine, who always had some scientific hobby or other, once took it into his head to make a flying-machine. It was when railway travelling was becoming an acknowledged as well as an accomplished fact, and men's thoughts were running upon other and wonderful schemes of locomotion. This flying-machine was to have wings moved by machinery; and as the rook is a bird of great powers of flight, his wings, it was thought, would be good models. The next thing, of course, was to get a rook for dissection; but this was not so easy a task. Mrs. Glasse's famous injunction became more and more applicable. Not a rook would come within range of the persevering schemer's gun. Even getting behind the hedge did not answer, for at the very moment some straggler seemed to be coming near enough, the wary old sentinel would rise with a caw, away would go the rooks in the opposite direction, and powder and shot, if expended at all, were expended in vain.

I never myself shot an old rook but once, and that was by taking what I almost think was a mean advantage of him; but then I think he was trying to dodge me. We were on opposite sides of a tolerably broad stream edged with willows, and near these willows walked warily and watchfully the rooks. One approached the bank; but just as I was about to fire, he disappeared behind a willow tree.

Now, thought I, if he does not pop off in the other direction, I shall catch him on the other side of the tree, and so I did; but he had evidently intended to cheat me, for he rose almost before he had got into sight, and it was only just at the very nick of time that I caught him under the wing. Poor bird, he paid for his temerity; but I felt very sorry I had killed him.

I have a great love for rooks, and, were I a country gentleman, should not consider my place complete without a rookery. It is a source of endless amusement, and amusement too of a peculiarly grave and reflective character. To watch the rooks home at night. and listen to the gentle cawings with which they sink to rest, is an unfailing source of pleasure to me; and if you are in time to watch their building labours-but then it must be in very early summer -you will find ample room for speculation. A pair built this year in an elm tree not far from my garden, and they were constant visitors to a silver birch of mine, from which they broke off the little topmost branches. They were somewhat shy at first; but when they found they were not molested, they became bolder, and would even come and work away with their bills whilst the children were playing on the grass-plot beneath. One thing was curious. They seldom went to their nest in a straight line, although they came in a straight line from it to the tree; but, having got as much as they could carry, would go off, as the Yankees would say, in a 'slantingdicular" direction, and, making a tack or two, would bear up and gain their nest by a circuitous route. Probably the way of the wind, especially as this was when they were loaded, had something to do with it. We watched them till the leaves of the elm tree grew too thick for us to see their nest, and since then they have lived a very retired life.

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The most striking instance of their sagacity that ever came under my own observation was this. I had been spending the day at a friend's farm, and was walking home in the cool of the evening,

about the time rooks go to bed. It was in early summer, and the young rooks were beginning to sit upon the edges of their nests and flutter their wings. As I drew near a large rookery not far from the roadside, where I had often watched my black friends, I was set wondering by such a chorus of caws as was unusual even for rooks at that season of the year. It was a very tempest of sound; and if any of my readers who know what the noise of a large rookery in spring is, will imagine the noise on this occasion to be twice or three times as great as it usually is when the rooks are making a noise, they will know what sort of a noise this was. I shall not be accused, I hope, of attempting a pun if I say that I felt sure there must be cause for all this, and began to look about to see if I could find out what it was. Sure enough there was a cause, in the shape of a hawk who was gliding about the nests, now striking the trees, now rising above them, evidently sharp-set, and determined if possible to have a young rook for supper. The noise still grew louder, and became a sort of jabbering, in which the caws could no longer be distinguished. Suddenly it ceased, and save for one or two old croakers, who seemed muttering a protest, or it may be expressing their satisfaction, all was quiet. But the dénouement was yet to come; for, on the cessation of the noise, two rooks left the rookery and quietly and deliberately flew straight towards the hawk. He saw them coming, and, wheeling round, tried to escape their attentions, but in vain. They followed him in every turn of his rapid and eccentric flight, rose with him when he rose, swooped down close to him when he descended. This continued for a minute or two, during which time the hawk gained no advantage, and at last, fairly turning tail, he flew off in an opposite direction. They followed him across about two fields, saw him well off their domains, and then returned with sober and somewhat flagging wing to the rookery. A murmur, I fancy of applause, greeted them as they returned: at least I am sure they deserved it; and if the noise

beforehand was a consultation among themselves as to who was to go and drive away the hawk, the result was certainly an additional proof of rook sagacity, for two better representatives of the patriotism, the skill, and the courage of the community could not have been selected. They were evidently the right rooks for the work.

THE RAVEN.

THE raven is a bird so well known, that a description of its appearance is unnecessary, except to distinguish it from its near relations, the crow and the rook. It is larger than either of those birds, and has a greater curve in its beak, which is also stronger.

Inhabiting all regions of the world, the raven is strong and hardy, and does not appear to suffer any inconvenience from the most intense cold or extreme heat.

We are accustomed to think of the raven as a bird of sable plumage, "As black as a raven's wing" being a proverbial saying; but these birds are sometimes seen of a snowy whiteness. It is supposed this change of colour is produced either by disease, or in consequence of inhabiting a cold climate for a prolonged period-the plumage of many birds changing under such circum

stances.

The raven is, in his appetite, essentially a glutton. Nothing in the shape of prey comes amiss to him, living or dead; whatever creature is in his power need not expect to escape from his strong beak and powerful digestive organs. He will even venture to pluck out the eyes of sheep and lambs, if sick or helpless, and so powerful is his sense of smell that he can discern his prey at a distance that seems incredible. Sweeping directly on the object, he first satisfies