Hawk's Quarry
On the morning after the gale I went along the path to the pighouse at the end of the kitchen garden. On a sunny patch I discovered the feathers of a small bird and at first thought that it had been a storm casualty. 1 was poking about in the debris in search of the bird itself when a hawk skimmed over the hazel hedge at the bottom of the garden and came towards me at great speed. A bird which I took to be a sparrow was flying for its life and escaped by going through the tall netting that runs along the path. The hawk saw the netting only just in time and mounted in the air, lost speed and impetus and so allowed the bird to get into cover a few yards from me. I had no doubt that the same hawk had struck down the bird whose feathers were on the path, but yesterday he must have hunted his prey from a different angle or the bird would have escaped through the wire as did this morning's quarry. I have no love for the sparrow hawk. His attacks are both cunning and brutal and to see him standing on his prey, tearing at it with his hooked beak, makes me like him less.
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