The Rookery

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.

COWPER.

In a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that crowns a terrace walk, just on
the skirts of the garden, is an ancient rookery, which is one of the
most important provinces in the squire's rural domains. The old
gentleman sets great store by his rooks, and will not suffer one of them
to be killed, in consequence of which they have increased amazingly; the
tree tops are loaded with their nests; they have encroached upon the
great avenue, and have even established, in times long past, a colony
among the elms and pines of the churchyard, which, like other distant
colonies, has already thrown off allegiance to the mother-country.

The rooks are looked upon by the squire as a very ancient and
honourable line of gentry, highly aristocratical in their notions, fond
of place, and attached to church and state; as their building so
loftily, keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in the venerable
groves of old castles and manor-houses, sufficiently manifests. The good
opinion thus expressed by the squire put me upon observing more narrowly
these very respectable birds; for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt
to confound them with their cousins-german the crows, to whom, at the
first glance, they bear so great a family resemblance. Nothing, it
seems, could be more unjust or injurious than such a mistake. The rooks
and crows are, among the feathered tribes, what the Spaniards and
Portuguese are among nations, the least loving, in consequence of their
neighbourhood and similarity. The rooks are old-established
housekeepers, high-minded gentlefolk that have had their hereditary
abodes time out of mind; but as to the poor crows, they are a kind of
vagabond, predatory, gipsy race, roving about the country, without any
settled home; "their hands are against everybody, and everybody's
against them," and they are gibbeted in every corn-field. Master Simon
assures me that a female rook that should so far forget herself as to
consort with a crow, would inevitably be disinherited, and indeed would
be totally discarded by all her genteel acquaintance.

The squire is very watchful over the interests and concerns of his sable
neighbours. As to Master Simon, he even pretends to know many of them by
sight, and to have given names to them; he points out several which he
says are old heads of families, and compares them to worthy old
citizens, beforehand in the world, that wear cocked hats and silver
buckles in their shoes. Notwithstanding the protecting benevolence of
the squire, and their being residents in his empire, they seem to
acknowledge no allegiance, and to hold no intercourse or intimacy. Their
airy tenements are built almost out of the reach of gunshot; and,
notwithstanding their vicinity to the Hall, they maintain a most
reserved and distrustful shyness of mankind.

There is one season of the year, however, which brings all birds in a
manner to a level, and tames the pride of the loftiest highflyer; which
is the season of building their nests. This takes place early in the
spring, when the forest trees first begin to show their buds; the long
withy ends of the branches to turn green; when the wild strawberry, and
other herbage of the sheltered woodlands, put forth their tender and
tinted leaves, and the daisy and the primrose peep from under the
hedges. At this time there is a general bustle among the feathered
tribes; an incessant fluttering about, and a cheerful chirping,
indicative, like the germination of the vegetable world, of the reviving
life and fecundity of the year.

It is then that the rooks forget their usual stateliness, and their shy
and lofty habits. Instead of keeping up in the high regions of the air,
swinging on the breezy tree tops, and looking down with sovereign
contempt upon the humble crawlers upon earth, they are fain to throw off
for a time the dignity of a gentleman, and to come down to the ground,
and put on the painstaking and industrious character of a labourer. They
now lose their natural shyness, become fearless and familiar, and may be
seen flying about in all directions, with an air of great assiduity, in
search of building materials. Every now and then your path will be
crossed by one of these busy old gentlemen, worrying about with awkward
gait, as if troubled with the gout or with corns on his toes, casting
about many a prying look, turning down first one eye, then the other, in
earnest consideration upon every straw he meets with, until espying some
mighty twig, large enough to make a rafter for his air-castle, he will
seize upon it with avidity, and hurry away with it to the tree top;
fearing, apparently, lest you should dispute with him the invaluable
prize.

Like other castle-builders, these airy architects seem rather fanciful
in the materials with which they build, and to like those most which
come from a distance. Thus, though there are abundance of dry twigs on
the surrounding trees, yet they never think of making use of them, but
go foraging in distant lands, and come sailing home, one by one, from
the ends of the earth, each bearing in his bill some precious piece of
timber.

Nor must I avoid mentioning what, I grieve to say, rather derogates from
the grave and honourable character of these ancient gentlefolk, that,
during the architectural season, they are subject to great dissensions
among themselves; that they make no scruple to defraud and plunder each
other; and that sometimes the rookery is a scene of hideous brawl and
commotion, in consequence of some delinquency of the kind. One of the
partners generally remains on the nest to guard it from depredation; and
I have seen severe contests when some sly neighbour has endeavoured to
filch away a tempting rafter that has captivated his eye. As I am not
willing to admit any suspicion hastily that should throw a stigma on the
general character of so worshipful a people, I am inclined to think that
these larcenies are very much discountenanced by the higher classes,
and even rigorously punished by those in authority; for I have now and
then seen a whole gang of rooks fall upon the nest of some individual,
pull it all to pieces, carry off the spoils, and even buffet the
luckless proprietor. I have concluded this to be some signal punishment
inflicted upon him by the officers of the police, for some pilfering
misdemeanour; or, perhaps, that it was a crew of bailiffs carrying an
execution into his house.

I have been amused with another of their movements during the building
season. The steward has suffered a considerable number of sheep to graze
on a lawn near the house, somewhat to the annoyance of the squire, who
thinks this an innovation on the dignity of a park, which ought to be
devoted to deer only. Be this as it may, there is a green knoll, not far
from the drawing-room window, were the ewes and lambs are accustomed to
assemble towards evening for the benefit of the setting sun. No sooner
were they gathered here, at the time when these politic birds were
building, than a stately old rook, who, Master Simon assured me, was the
chief magistrate of this community, would settle down upon the head of
one of the ewes, who, seeming conscious of this condescension, would
desist from grazing, and stand fixed in motionless reverence of her
august brethren; the rest of the rookery would then come wheeling down,
in imitation of their leader, until every ewe had two or three of them
cawing, and fluttering, and battling upon her back. Whether they
requited the submission of the sheep by levying a contribution upon
their fleece for the benefit of the rookery, I am not certain, though I
presume they followed the usual custom of protecting powers.

The latter part of May is a time of great tribulation among the
rookeries, when the young are just able to leave the nests, and balance
themselves on the neighbouring branches. Now comes on the season of
"rook shooting:" a terrible slaughter of the innocents. The squire, of
course, prohibits all invasion of the kind on his territories; but I am
told that a lamentable havoc takes place in the colony about the old
church. Upon this devoted commonwealth the village charges "with all its
chivalry." Every idle wight that is lucky enough to possess an old gun
or a blunderbuss, together with all the archery of Slingsby's school,
take the field on the occasion. In vain does the little parson
interfere, or remonstrate in angry tones, from his study window that
looks into the churchyard; there is a continual popping from morning to
night. Being no great marksmen, their shots are not often effective; but
every now and then a great shout from the besieging army of bumpkins
makes known the downfall of some unlucky, squab rook, which comes to the
ground with the emphasis of a squashed apple-dumpling.

Nor is the rookery entirely free from other troubles and disasters. In
so aristocratical and lofty-minded a community, which boasts so much
ancient blood and hereditary pride, it is natural to suppose that
questions of etiquette will sometimes arise, and affairs of honour
ensue. In fact, this is very often the case: bitter quarrels break out
between individuals, which produce sad scufflings on the tree tops, and
I have more than once seen a regular duel take place between two doughty
heroes of the rookery. Their field of battle is generally the air: and
their contest is managed in the most scientific and elegant manner;
wheeling round and round each other, and towering higher and higher to
get the vantage-ground, until they sometimes disappear in the clouds
before the combat is determined.

They have also fierce combats now and then with an invading hawk, and
will drive him off from their territories by a _posse comitatus_. They
are also extremely tenacious of their domains, and will suffer no other
bird to inhabit the grove or its vicinity. There was a very ancient and
respectable old bachelor owl that had long had his lodgings in a corner
of the grove, but has been fairly ejected by the rooks, and has retired,
disgusted with the world, to a neighbouring wood, where he leads the
life of a hermit, and makes nightly complaints of his ill-treatment.

The hootings of this unhappy gentleman may generally be heard in the
still evenings, when the rooks are all at rest; and I have often
listened to them of a moonlight night with a kind of mysterious
gratification. This gray-bearded misanthrope of course is highly
respected by the squire, but the servants have superstitious notions
about him; and it would be difficult to get the dairymaid to venture
after dark near to the wood which he inhabits.

Besides the private quarrels of the rooks, there are other misfortunes
to which they are liable, and which often bring distress into the most
respectable families of the rookery. Having the true baronial spirit of
the good old feudal times, they are apt now and then to issue forth from
their castles on a foray, and to lay the plebeian fields of the
neighbouring country under contribution; in the course of which
chivalrous expeditions they now and then get a shot from the rusty
artillery of some refractory farmer. Occasionally, too, while they are
quietly taking the air beyond the park boundaries, they have the
incaution to come within the reach of the truant bowmen of Slingsby's
school, and receive a flight shot from some unlucky urchin's arrow. In
such case the wounded adventurer will sometimes have just strength
enough to bring himself home, and giving up the ghost at the rookery,
will hang dangling "all abroad" on a bough like a thief on a gibbet; an
awful warning to his friends, and an object of great commiseration to
the squire. But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks have,
upon the whole, a happy holiday life of it. When their young are reared,
and fairly launched upon their native element, the air, the cares of the
old folks seem over, and they resume all their aristocratical dignity
and idleness. I have envied them the enjoyment which they appear to have
in their ethereal heights, sporting with clamorous exultation about
their lofty bowers; sometimes hovering over them, sometimes partially
alighting upon the topmost branches, and there balancing with
outstretched wings, and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes they seem to
take a fashionable drive to the church, and amuse themselves by circling
in airy rings about its spire: at other times a mere garrison is left at
home to mount guard in their stronghold at the grove, while the rest
roam abroad to enjoy the fine weather. About sunset the garrison gives
notice of their return; their faint cawing will be heard from a great
distance, and they will be seen far off like a sable cloud, and then
nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring home. Then they perform
several grand circuits in the air, over the Hall and garden, wheeling
closer and closer, until they gradually settle down upon the grove, when
a prodigious cawing takes place, as though they were relating their
day's adventures.

I like at such times to walk about these dusky groves, and hear the
various sounds of these airy people roosted so high above me. As the
gloom increases, their conversation subsides, and they seem to be
gradually dropping asleep; but every now and then there is a querulous
note, as if some one was quarrelling for a pillow, or a little more of
the blanket. It is late in the evening before they completely sink to
repose, and then their old anchorite neighbour, the owl, begins his
lonely hootings from his bachelor's hall in the wood.

The Rookery

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