COUNTRY LIFE
I WAs wrong, or at least premature, about the absence of rooks from the nests in the copse at Hushheath Manor, that shapely, small Eliza- bethan housc with an Italian garden on the northern side of a steep hill. A week after my observation I walked round that way again, to be greeted from afar by the Tennysonian clamour, the " caw . caw " and the " cruk . . . cruk ...", with the accompaniment of windy wings and hustling of branches. There they were, dozens of them, milling around the tree-tops, arguing and squabbling, sailing off, changing their minds and returning to pancake heavily on the already untidy stacks of twiggery surviving from the industry of former tenants. The sun was shining, glinting off their feathers so that every bird shone like a fabrication in blue steel. The only silent thing about them was their shadows on the lane below, gliding to and fro over its surface like ghostly shuttles. Debris showered down ; twigs, dead leaves, cast-off feathers. It was a great house-moving scene, and 1 almost looked around for furniture vans and sacks of straw.
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