himself beneath a furze-bush to witness the fight.
The heron had gained an open space between
two woods, and there the three garotters were
determined he should stop and deliver. The
chattering of the magpies, the cawing of the
crows, and the screaming of the heron, added
exciting sounds to the animation of the scene.
The magpies descended quickly upon the ground
and hopped about there, out of reach of the
cuffs and pecks of battle; yet, as will be seen,
they had a keen interest in sharing the spoils of
war. The crows attacked the heron from three
opposite points: one from above darted down
on his head; a second assailed him in front, or
sideways; and the third, from behind, seized
the outstretched feet of the heron, and turned
him topsy-turvy. Every somersault was hailed
by all the black assailants with gesticulations
and cries full of exultation, mirth, and glee.
The heron, no doubt, looked ridiculous, as the
robbed passengers of the coach looked to the
highwaymen, and the rifled citizen looked to the
garotters. During one of these somersaults
the heron dropped something unperceived by the
crows, which, however, was greedily snatched
up by the magpies. Another somersault made
him let fall a small fish, after which one of the
crows flew. The odds being reduced to two to
one, the heron made a vigorous attempt to get
away; but, being baffled, he was compelled to
drop an eel. Down flew both the crows after
the eel, beginning to fight with each other as
they descended. Meanwhile, the eel, reaching
the ground, was pounced upon by the magpies.
The crows, perceiving their folly, quickly
dispossessed the magpies of the eel, which they
tore asunder, and then each with a portion flew
away towards the trees. The heron, winging
his way with unusual rapidity, was already far
in the distance, and little the worse, apparently,
for the fray.

If the heron had descended on the ground he
would have beaten the crows, and shown why
the Greeks called him Spear-head. Mr. Edward
was one day passing along the Green banks at
Banff, when he heard a loud clamour from the
opposite side of the river. A heron, with a live
flounder in his beak, was surrounded by a crowd
of blacknebs, hoodies, rooks, and jackdaws.
The Scottish name for the heron is the craigie,
a name descriptive of his long thin neck. But
this flounder was far too large even for the
swallowing capacity of this craigie's gullet. He
was, therefore, compelled to lay it down upon
the grass, putting one of his feet upon it, and
watching his foes with a keen and wary glance.
All the blacknebs preserved a respectful
distance from the Spear-head. At length the heron
took to flight with the plaice in his bill, followed
by only two of the hoodies. Trying to snatch
the fish from him, they harassed and pestered
him so much that he was obliged to alight upon
an embankment higher up the river, the hoodies
alighting also a few yards from him. Dropping
the flounder upon the grass, the heron stood
erect, defying his pursuers. None of them
approaching him, he managed to swallow the fish,
and then once more took to flight; and the
hoodies went after him, and were pecking him
furiously, when a gamekeeper shot one of them,
and the other sneaked off.

Mr. Edward on another occasion saw a heron
give a hoodie a blow with his bill which sent
him into the sea. It was at the mouth of the
stream or burn of Boyndie. The report of a
shot having raised a flock of sanderlings, hoodies,
and a heron, three of the hoodies gave chase to
the heron. Something attracting the attention
of two of the hoodies, there was soon only one
in pursuit, and he was descending trying to
catch something, when the heron dealt him such
a blow on the back as sent him souse into the
sea. He had time to utter but one "caw,"
and then he was over head and ears. His
feathers were so wet that he could not raise
himself. Luckily for him, although the sea was
smooth, there was a rough jabble in-shore, and
the breeze and the tide bore him to some rocks,
where he scrambled up and dried himself in the
sun.

Ravens and crows are far more bellicose than
rooks. Mr. W. H. Slaney, of Hatton Hall,
relates how four corbies drove nearly two hundred
rooks from nests which they had occupied for
about fifteen years. This rookery was set up
in an ash coppice, growing out of a pit at the
corner of a meadow near Hatton Hall, and was
a colony from a large one on the opposite side
of the valley, which had been there time out of
mind. Finding that they were annually
decimated in the ash coppice, a few of them betook
themselves to some large elm and fir trees
overhanging Hatton Hall. Early in March, 1854,
four or five nests had been completed, and many
more begun, in the coppice, when it was
observed that all the rooks were abandoning
it and building their nests in the trees
overhanging the Hall, and in the ancient rookery
across the valley. And the explanation of this
migration was found to be the invasion of the
ash coppice by a couple of corby crows. When-
ever a courageous rook or an inquisitive jackdaw
went near the coppice, one or other of the corbies
was sure to drive it away with fierce croakings.
But corbies are very ill-famed in agricultural
districts for their attacks upon game and lambs,
and therefore orders were issued from the Hall
to the gamekeeper to destroy the invaders. But
it was easier said than done. In vain did the
gamekeeper wait hid in the pit under the ash
trees early every morning and late every evening,
for the corbies kept just beyond his reach. At
last, getting a shot at one corby, he declared he
had hit it, because it flew straight up into the
clouds and he never saw anything more of it.
Never, for several days more, could he get a
chance, and corbies were seen driving away
rooks just as before. Not to be outwitted by
crows, the keeper tied a cat to a peg in the
ground, and concealed himself in a convenient
ambush. The crow, suspecting the cat of evil
designs on her nest, began hovering and cawing
over it. The cat, by plaintive mewings,
protested innocence, and the corby, indignant at