outcry, and all within hearing hurry up to denounce th silent-footed marauder. For some time the noise con tinues, sounding now here, now there, but at last i becomes stationary, which means that the exasperate animal is facing its tormentors. The clamour increases and one can imagine the birds, emboldened by numbers and growing more excited every moment, closing i upon their enemy. Then suddenly there is a ver different cry, a note eloquent of tragedy, and as if b magic quiet is restored. One of the flock, venturing to near, has paid the penalty. The spell, if spell there was is broken. The remainder scatter silently, and so end the story.

More than once I have heard or seen the little dram enacted. The most notable case, perhaps, was that of raven being mobbed by jackdaws, which I witnessed o the coast not long ago. But take a much more homel instance. Tether a ferret in any farmyard, and watc the effect upon the hens. If only one or two are nea they will scuttle away as fast as possible; but if severa birds are there one will see a curious thing. Afte studying the suspicious-looking white object from respectful distance and a great deal of discussion, th hens eventually gather courage, and commence a genera advance upon the stranger. The ferret, fully alive t the situation, either rolls about to attract more notice or lies still, feigning sleep, watching the oncomer covertly through half-closed eyes. Nearer and neare the hens approach, but more cautiously as the circl narrows, until the boldest edges forward to try th effect of a judicious peck. Then it is time to interfere or tragedy will follow.

Old-fashioned gamekeepers have a very simple devic for circumventing magpies, which, even the naturalis must admit, can become a little too plentiful at times A white ferret is taken out and tethered by a long lin in some open place among the plantations. The keepe takes cover near and waits. If it is a sunny afternoo the ferret frisks and gambols about in a manner certain sooner or later to catch the quick eye of any magpi that happens to be in the neighbourhood. Then th excitement begins. It, is the stoat and small bird story over again, and well worth anybody's while to make the

experiment for the interesting glimpse of bird life which it affords. By this means I have had as many as thirty magpies and jays round me at one time.

Even to-day a spice of mystery or romance attends the comings and goings of wild fowl to and from our shores. We accept the presence of this species or that at the proper season, and realise perhaps that it hails from some lone far land, across hundreds of leagues of continent and ocean. Of the actual journey, however, we know nothing, and the more one studies the whole principle of migration the more fascinating it becomes. It has always struck me as a most remarkable thing that the great autumnal movement is led, not by veterans who might be expected to know the immemorial lines of travel, but by immature birds which precede their seniors by days or even weeks. What induces them to start upon their adventurous journey without example or precedent? How do they know what course to steer, and how many of the little voyagers perish by the way?

Not long ago a neighbour of mine picked up a rednecked grebe, which he found lying upon dry land in a part of the country where this species is quite unknown. It was obviously a migrant which had sustained some injury in the course of its flight. It still lived, however, and he carried it to a neighbouring pond, where it was seen several times within the next week, and appeared to be recovering. Then came the day when it was not to be found, and we concluded that it had resumed its lonely way. What, one wonders, was its story?

A host of migrants under full headway is an unforgettable sight. Even more impressive is the sound of innumerable wings, passing in the stillness of night. Years ago on the far western plains-a wonderful country for wild fowl-I was camping near a chain of big lakes on one of the main lines, of migration from the north. A party of six had gathered round the fire, yarning or 'swapping lies' as it was more generally termed. It was getting late. Even the yapping of the coyotes which continues well into the night had quieted down, and for a long while no wild sound had broken the immense brooding stillness of the waste. Suddenly for no apparent reason a dog, lying near the fire, pricked

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his ears and began to exhibit unmistakable signs of interest in something. Needless to say, we were al agog on the instant, but so far as we could see or hear nothing stirred, and we were about to resume our edify ing conversation when out of the dark distance came a faint murmur, like a ripple of wind among forest trees It sounded miles away at first, but drew rapidly nearer sweeping on through the night with the eerie crescendo effect of a coming flood. It might indeed have been a rising hurricane, for the winds work strange fancies across those illimitable plains. There was something too rhythmical about it, however; one's thoughts turned rather to the legendary tales of Hiawatha or Clote Scarpe when some mundane member of the party murmured 'Geese.'

Instantly every eye was turned upwards. Overhead the heavens were clear-brilliant even-but though the thunder of wings now filled the air one could see nothing Yet all the while high above, somewhere between the trees and the cold stars, we knew that hundreds of splendid living creatures were winnowing by in seemingly unending procession. What all the birds were, or how long the flight lasted, I cannot say. It seemed like hours but we took no account of time. It was not a continuous stream of birds. They came in waves, with intervals o varying lengths between. Sometimes for several minutes silence would be restored, then again the distant murmur gradually swelling into the soul-stirring rhythm of strong wings, and once more the wild weird rush of un seen multitudes over our heads. It was an experience to be remembered.

DOUGLAS GORDON.

Art 8.-OUR ENGLISH VILLAGES.

1. East Hendred; a Berkshire Parish historically treated. By Arthur L. Humphreys, F.S.A. Hatchards, 1923. 2 The History of Banstead in Surrey. By H. C. M. Lambert, C.B. Oxford University Press, 1912.

3. The Priory and Manor of Lynchmere and Shulbrede. By Arthur Ponsonby. The Wessex Press, 1920.

4. The History of the Parish and Manor of Wookey. By the Rev. T. S. Holmes. Bristol (no date).

5. History of the Manor and Parish of Saleby with Thoresthorpe. By the Rev. R. C. Dudding. Horncastle, 1922.

BEHIND our country villages lie more than fifteen centuries of history. Yet of the three factors in the agricultural industry-land, capital, and man-the human element has been least studied. Better farming and better business have engrossed more attention than better living. In towns, civilisation in all its manifold forms has swept onwards, leaving the country a century behind. To the citizen the rural population is a mystery ; he scarcely conceives of rural interests as human interests. He thinks most of cheap food. Yet, before many years have passed, it will possibly be recognised that there is no more important influence on national life than the wife of the rural worker, no more important home than her cottage, no more important social need than that of bringing the conditions of country living into line with the development of the towns.

In the United States and in every part of reconstituted Europe, rural life is the subject of discussion, if not of legislation. In this country, of recent years, efforts have been made to give our villages a fuller existence, to break down the apathy which is bred of limited opportunities and of an admirable but almost fatalistic patience, to revive something of their ancient gaiety, to render life less solitary and more attractive, to show that all the real prizes of human happiness do not necessarily lie at a distance from the land. Much more is needed than amusements or even increased mental occupations. But they are something, and it is to be hoped that, before it is too late, and in spite of agricultural depression, these efforts may be increasingly

successful. Unless decay can be arrested, it is no creditable to 20th-century progress that national lif should be rotting at its vital roots.

For lovers of the country its villages have a peculia fascination. But it is a dispiriting reflexion that, albe in dependence, squalor, poverty, and insanitary condition mediæval villages enjoyed a fullness of corporate an individual interest which, compared with to-day, is a a flowing river to a stagnant pond. On the features o remote clusters of inhabitants is still stamped each stag in social and economic history, from the distant day when land was everything and trade nothing, down t the present century when, as pessimists assure u agriculture is going to the devil in a gale of wind. Som in one direction, some in another, they present impres sions of the past so vividly that the old world seems t be still kept in living touch with the new. The evidence which any one village affords of ancient habits, customs and manners is fragmentary; but facts and details col lected over ever-widening areas may enable competen scholars, in the near future, to recapture the life of ou forefathers with an increased degree of freshness an completeness.

It is as a contribution to the general stock of know ledge, from which wider conclusions may be safel drawn, that the history of a parish has a value beyon its own immediate neighbourhood. Social and economi historians already owe much to the patient labours o those who, before ancient landmarks had been obliterate and old names forgotten, preserved the records of obscur hamlets which have never, perhaps, been associated wit remarkable men or memorable events. The debt will b enhanced by the increased accuracy of modern methods Yet, personally, I should regret the complete passing o the older school of local historians who had access t fewer documents, less science, greater taste for gossip robuster appetites for tradition. Loving the place i which they lived, and about which they wrote, they painted their pictures with enthusiasm, throwing int their work the vividness of local colour and of their ow personalities. Often inaccurate, seldom judicial, generally credulous, they are full of interest, even when they rea from airy nothings summer palaces of conjecture which