Birds of Town and Village | Page 6

beautiful bright morning the male bird, in his
old place near my window, attempted to sing, beginning with that rich,
melodious throbbing, which is usually called "jugging," and following
with half-a-dozen beautiful notes. That was all. It was July, and I heard
no more music from him or from any other of his kind.
* * *
I have perhaps written at too great length of this bird. The nightingale
was after all only one of the fifty-nine species I succeeded in
identifying during my sojourn at the village. There were more. I heard
the calls and cries of others in the wood and various places, but refused,
except in the case of the too elusive crake, to set down any in my list

that I did not see. It was not my ambition to make a long list. My
greatest desire was to see well those that interested me most. But those
who go forth, as I did, to look for birds that are a sight for sore eyes,
must meet with many a disappointment. In all those fruit and shade
trees that covered the village with a cloud of verdure, and in the
neighbouring woods, not once did I catch a glimpse of the green
woodpecker, a beautiful conspicuous bird, supposed to be increasing in
many places in England. Its absence from so promising a locality
seemed strange. Another species, also said to be increasing in the
country--the turtledove, was extremely abundant. In the tall beech
woods its low, montonous crooning note was heard all day long from
all sides. In shady places, where the loud, shrill bird-voices are few,
one prefers this sound to the set song of the woodpigeon, being more
continuous and soothing, and of the nature of a lullaby. It sometimes
reminded me of the low monotone I have heard from a Patagonian
mother when singing her "swart papoose" to sleep. Still, I would gladly
have spared many of these woodland crooners for the sake of one
magpie--that bird of fine feathers and a bright mind, which I had not
looked on for a whole year, and now hoped to see again. But he was not
there; and after I had looked for myself, some of the natives assured me
that no magpie had been seen for years in that wood.
For a time I feared that I was to be just as unlucky with regard to the
jay, seeing that the owner of the extensive beech woods adjoining the
village permitted his keeper to kill the most interesting birds in
it--kestrels and sparrowhawks, owls, jays, and magpies. He was a new
man, comparatively, in the place, and wanted to increase his preserves,
but to do this it was necessary first to exclude the villagers--the
Badgers, who were no doubt partial to pheasants' eggs. Now, to close
an ancient right-of-way is a ticklish business, and this was an important
one, seeing that the village women did their Saturday marketing in the
town beyond the wood and river, and with the path closed they would
have two miles further to walk. The new lord wisely took this into
consideration, and set himself to win the goodwill of the people before
attempting any strong measures. He walked in the lanes and was
affable to the cottage women and nice to the children, and by and bye
he exclaimed, "What! No institute! no hall, or any place where you can
meet and spend the long winter evenings? Well, I'll soon see to that."

And soon, to their delight, they had a nice building reared on a piece of
land which he bought for the purpose, furnished with tables, chairs,
bagatelle boards, and all accessories; and he also supplied them with
newspapers and magazines. He was immensely popular, but appeared
to think little of what he had done. When they expressed their gratitude
to him he would move his hand, and answer, "Oh, I'm going to do a
great deal more than that for you!"
A few months went by, then he caused a notice to be put up about the
neighbourhood that the path through the wood was going to be closed
"by order." No one took any notice, and a few weeks later his workmen
appeared on the scene and erected a huge oakwood barrier across the
path; also a notice on a board that the wood was strictly private and
trespassers would be prosecuted. The villagers met in force at the
institute and the inn that evening, and after discussing the matter over
their ale, they armed themselves with axes and went in a body and
demolished the barrier.
The owner was disgusted, but took no action. "This," he said, "is their
gratitude"; and from that day he ceased to subscribe to the local
charities or take