Wagtail (Motacilla alba) Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) Red-backed Shrike (Lanius collurio) I may mention, in concluding this paper, and with reference to the large flock of starlings which was seen, that these birds appear to congregate earlier in the Autumn than any others. They are extremely sociable in their disposition; and when they quit the nest, keep together in families for a short time, and then join with others until they form the vast flocks we see in meadows. No birds appear to have so much conversation, if the term may be used, as Starlings, especially when they visit their roosting-places in the evening; they seem, then, to be congratulating each other with no small degree of satisfaction. DICK ROOK. A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE. IN Ah! what a life were this--how sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, To kings, that fear their subject's treachery? O yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth. And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, Is far beyond a prince's delicates. SHAKSPEARE'S HENRY VI. Part III. 2. 5. In my various walks and rambles in the country, I frequently meet with odd and amusing characters. I am in the habit of talking to strangers, whenever a fit opportunity presents itself for doing so, and although some of my friends have prognosticated that I shall some time or other get myself into a scrape by indulging in this propensity, such has never yet been the case. Indeed, I always find that a little civility of manner, a trifling apology, or the offer of a pinch of snuff on a proper occasion, invariably produce civility in return. I may add, that I never yet met with that person from whom I could not extract either some information, or gain some insight into cha racter. Chelsea or Greenwich pensioners, are generally very communicative, and prolific of anecdote. I have also occasionally met with superannuated fishermen, shrimpers, or periwinkle collectors in sea-bathing towns, who are very conversable, and who delight in a sunny corner, where they bask with folded arms, either talking over their past adventures, or prognosticating the state of the weather. An old fellow, clad in a patched coat, with an habitual stoop, and a dirty-flag basket on his arm, in which he deposits bones, bits of wood or iron, has often a good deal to say. He is, however, very inferior to those cyclops-like figures, who are sometimes to be seen, with sacks on their backs, lurking about in odd corners and out of the way places, scraping amongst cinders and dust-holes for hidden treasures. They certainly have a larcenous look, and are generally blear-eyed, but then they have a thorough knowledge of the world, and would furnish materials for a biographical history of that industrious class of the community, called cinder-pickers. Having thus confessed one of my peculiarities, it will appear that I must be tolerably well acquainted with the characters of some of the poorer class. I am aware of the odd sort of drudgery many of them undergo in order to procure a living, and I am sorry to add the privations they suffer, and this very often with a gentle and quiet humility. The subject, however, is painful, and moreover it is time to say something of Dick Rook, the hero of my story. Some years had passed, since I first met with Dick. I was with a shooting party on a wild heath in Sussex, when I first fell in with this singular character. At that time he was dressed in a coat much too long for him, with a pair of trousers much too short. He had no stockings, but a pair of high shoes tied with pack-thread, graced his legs. His beard was of a considerable growth, his eye-brows were shaggy, and his hat had something very characteristic about it. His countenance gave indications of great good humour, and at the same time shewed much boldness and decision. He had a formidable stick in his hand, with which he now and then brushed a furze-bush as he passed it, for the purpose of starting a hare or a rabbit. I found, on enquiry, that there was not a battue in the county within twenty miles of the spot, at which Dick usually hung out, where he was not to be met with. He was a sort of privileged person in the servants' halls of the neighbouring gentry, and was much employed in conveying presents of game from one house to another, for which he was tolerably well paid. He was moreover a trusty assistant to gamekeepers, when any poaching was going forward, and had met with much rough usage on several of these occasions. Dick had, however, his own peculiar notions on some subjects, and nothing could induce him to give his evidence against poachers, provided there was a fair stand-up fight with sticks between them and the party he accompanied. If, however, a gun was called in aid of the marauders, or he could detect any skulking fellow in the act of setting snares, he had no hesitation in appearing as a witness against the offenders. This had been the case the day before I had met him, and was the occasion of my becoming acquainted with some parts of his character, previously to his accompanying the party I have referred to. The first sight of Dick Rook impressed me with the conviction that he was no common man, and the conversations I subsequently held with him, only served to confirm this impression. At the time I am speaking of, he assured me that there was no place he could call his home, and that he never wished to sleep in the inside of a house. A barn, a cow-shed, or the shelter of a hay-rick were his nocturnal places of resort, and in summer, he said, there was nothing like sleeping under a tree. Amongst the many questions I put to him, one was whether he ever went to Church. "No," said Dick, "I never go to those places-I have no right there." No right, why |
