ooping down he would alight on the ledge a yard or
two away, and the male dove would then turn and face him, and if he then
began sidling up the dove would dash at and buffet him with his wings
with the greatest violence and throw him off. When he swooped closer the
dove would spring up and meet him in the air, striking him at the moment
of meeting, and again the daw would be beaten. When I left three days
after witnessing this contest, the doves were still in possession of
their nest, and I concluded that they were not so entirely at the mercy
of the jackdaw as the old man had led me to believe.

It was, on this occasion, a great pleasure to listen to the doves. The
stock-dove has no set song, like the ringdove, but like all the other
species in the typical genus Columba it has the cooing or family note,
one of the most human-like sounds which birds emit. In the stock-dove
this is a better, more musical, and a more varied sound than in any
other Columba known to me. The pleasing quality of the sound as well as
the variety in it could be well noted here where the birds were many,
scattered about on ledges and projections high above the earth, and when
bird after bird uttered its plaint, each repeating his note half a dozen
to a dozen times, one in slow measured time, and deep-voiced like the
rock-dove, but more musical; another rapidly, with shorter, impetuous
notes in a higher key, as if carried away by excitement. There were not
two birds that cooed in precisely the same way, and the same bird would
often vary its manner of cooing.

It was best to hear them during the afternoon service in the cathedral,
when the singing of the choir and throbbing and pealing of the organ
which filled the vast interior was heard outside, subdued by the walls
through which it passed, and was like a beautiful mist or atmosphere of
sound pervading and enveloping the great building; and when the plaining
of the doves, owing to the rhythmic flow of the notes and their human
characters, seemed to harmonize with and be a part of that sacred music.

Chapter Twelve: Whitesheet Hill

On Easter Saturday the roadsides and copses by the little river Nadder
were full of children gathering primroses; they might have filled a
thousand baskets without the flowers being missed, so abundant were
they in that place. Cold though it was the whole air was laden with the
delicious fragrance. It was pleasant to see and talk with the little
people oc