countries. When April returns they
all come back again,--from the palms of Africa, over the olives of Italy
and the oaks of Spain--back across the seas they come to us. It is here
that they build their nests and rear their young ones, but only to fly
away again in the autumn. Truly, these swallows are wonderful
travellers."

"How nice it must be to spend the winter in a warm, sunny place,"
remarked the Blackbird, enviously.

"Well, I don't know," retorted the Rook; "think of the long, long
journey! Think of the miles and miles of ocean to be crossed, think of
the weary wings, think of the poor breathless birds. They often perch to
rest a while on the passing ships, and they often get knocked down and
killed. Then again, just think how they must suffer from the cold here
in England, after the warm climates they have wintered in. No, depend
upon it," said the Rook, shaking his head wisely, "it's far better to
spend the winter here at home and get healthy and hardy. There are many
nights when you and I are warm and comfortable that these unhappy
swallows are crouched shivering under the eaves. In my humble opinion
there's nothing like England, dear old England, for English birds."

You see this old Rook was very patriotic, and of course a great Tory to
boot. He disliked change of every sort and kind. He, and his ancestors
before him, had built in these same elm-trees, since the first gray
stone of the old mansion had been laid. From these same trees, from
generation to generation, they had watched the sun rise and set during
the stormy days of winter and the sunny days of summer. They had noted
the seasons as they came and went, enjoying the fruits and the joys of
each, and when any rook was cut off by death, it was generally old age
that killed him,--unless it were that occasionally a youngster, more
enterprising than prudent, would lean out of his nest to see the world
around him, and what was going on there, and then a sudden rush of his
small body through the air, and a thud at the foot of the tree, would
tell of the premature decease of a promising rooklet. Yes, "Old England
for ever!" was still the watchword of the rooks.

"Certainly it is very delightful just now," said the Blackbird, looking
round him. Delicate young leaves were bursting forth on every side;
primroses, anemones, and even a few early cowslips were peering through
the grass below, the sun was shining, and the woods were filled with a
chorus of so