Cock Crow A week ago, before the moon had waned,
I happened to be out in the early hours of the morning, walking home along a quiet road with my shadow in front of me and the smallest breeze sighing in the yew tree and moving the tops of the poplars. The cocks were crowing although daybreak was far off. Up on one of the farms a shrill-voiced bird crowed and waited for an answer. The answer came, faintly and far-off. I could hear the message going on up the valley, no longer shrill but a fairy sound being passed to every fowlhouse for miles around. Some people in the village complain that their sleep is dis- turbed when cocks begin crowing.' An acquaintance had the policeman down to listen to the disturbance one night and then made a 'phone call to the owner of some of the birds. What resulted I do not know. There may be a way of stopping a cock' crowing without wringing its neck. For my part there is some- thing enchanting in the sound of a cock crowing when the country is bathed in moon- light. Like the barking of a dog at night, it is a sound I never hear without a comfortable if somewhat primitive feeling of being part of a community.
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