can cling to a brick wall or any rough surface like a bat and pick up a mouse or a bird; dead ones here, of course, which are brought to me for him; I do not give him live creatures; and taking the mouse from my fingers he will hold it out at the full stretch of his very long leg for my inspection, and then throw, not drop the mouse to the other side of his cage.

During the day Patch stays in my painting-room. After tea I fetch him down to our sitting-room, where I am busy, beside my wife, with my books or writing. He is no sooner placed on his stand opposite the table than he asks to be let out. The cage-door being opened, he is off on a tour of inspection and a game. Nothing escapes his

notice. Running with the speed of a partridge or quail over the carpet, he inspects all things, particularly myself. No matter how he is engaged, he will come from time to time in the most quiet manner to have a look at me. His wings have never been clipped, so that he can move very rapidly, At times he compels me to catch him and put him in the cage. Getting hold of him very gently, I turn him over back downwards in the palm of my

hand. Patch at once draws his feet up to his breast, rolls his eyes at me, and gives full vent to his grief in awful sounds. Some one being choked, and trying to protest against the process, one might fancy it to be. I place him in the cage in the same position; when he gets up on his perch he looks at me in a very demoniacal manner. are friends again directly, however. Like his master, he has a will of his own, and it generally ends in his having his when he pleases, and I mine when I can get it.

We

Tea being over, Patch watches the proceedingsas all things, myself included, get settled downfrom under a chair or table. Then, with a run over the room, a jump on to a chair, and from that to the table, thence to the top of his cage, Patch remains on his throne for the rest of the evening-his game in the cellar excepted.

During the evening he will condescend to address a few sentences to me, just to let me know he can see me, nothing more. His mistress has his undivided attention. From the top of his cage he holds forth with great and untiring eloquence, crest raised, body upright, looking like one of those

pepper-box owls. He walks about from one side to the other his joy is great and loud; and with a low, chattering cry, he calls to his mistress. She holds out her hand, and Patch steps daintily on to it; trims his feathers, turns his head upside down to have a look at me, and then goes to sleep.

As a man I have given years of study to the birds of prey, so named, who were my first loves as a little lad. Falcons, hawks, and owls stand alone for intelligence and affectionateness, unmixed with a particle of fear; but if there be any difference it is certainly in favour of the owls.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FARMER'S FEATHERED FRIENDS.

FIRST on the list stands that much-abused friend, the rook. Forty years ago he had a rough time of it in some counties: from morning to night there was little peace for rooks on any farmer's ground. In the flat counties they are called crows. Very few of the rising generation have ever seen a pair of the old-fashioned "crow-clappers," or heard their deafening din. I was very familiar with them in my youth, and have often played on them.

A "crow-clapper was a long-handled machine like a small shovel, the broad part of it about the size of a schoolboy's slate. To this was looped loosely a second piece of the same size. When this instrument was flourished vigorously the

music (?) could be heard at a great distance; the greater the distance the better for the ears of the listener. Nor was this all: there was a vocal part besides, which it was expected the "crow-keeper" or rather rook-scarer, should sing most lustily.

These simple country functions are almost things of the past; many of them have gone, never to return. Those of them that belonged to our boyhood are apt to recur to the memory as life advances, when much that occurred in our early manhood is forgotten.

That doggerel verse sung by the crow-keeper I remember well, having shouted it myself hundreds of times :

"Fly crow, eat your spoil [spile],

While I sit down and rest awhile;

For you know if master happens to come,
You must fly and I must run!

Away crow! away crow!"

Now as this, when properly done, was sung to a quick-march tune, the clappers marking the time most energetically, we leave the reader to imagine for himself the uproar. What rook with any selfrespect could eat his meal within sound of such a

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