mortality among the animals on the hill. They were dying in all
directions; some for want of proper food, and from being put out of
their usual habits: others from being preyed upon by their stronger
neighbours. Nothing seemed to thrive but the ravenous birds which came
in clusters, winging their way over the waters, and making a great
rustling of their pinions as they descended to perch upon some dead
animal, pulling it to pieces before the very eyes of the boys, as they
stood consulting what to do. It was a horrid sight: and it brought the
horrid thought that soon probably there would be no game left for food
for the party; and that what there was meantime might be unwholesome.
Oliver had never imagined that the old boy, Roger Redfurn, could look so
alarmed as he did at this moment.

"Never mind, now, Roger," said he, "what is likely to become of you and
me. Wait, and find that out by-and-by. What I am afraid of is seeing
Mildred look at all as George does now. Come, let us set to work!
Don't stand looking up in the sky, in that way. Help me--do. Cannot
Spy help? Call him; will you?"

"We can't get away!" exclaimed Roger, as if now, for the first time,
awakened to his situation. "Those vile birds--they can go where they
like--nasty creatures--and we cannot stir from where we are!"

"I wish we had our singing birds back again, instead of these
creatures," said Oliver. "Our shy, pretty, innocent little birds, that
used to be so pleased to pick up twigs and straws to build their nests
with, and be satisfied with the worms and slugs and flies that they
cleared away from the garden. I wish we had them, instead of these
ugly, saucy, dirty birds. But our birds are happier somewhere else, I
dare say; in some dry, pleasant place among those hills, all sweet with
flowers, and cool with clear running water."

"They can get there, and we can't. We can't get out of this hot
steaming place: and those hills look further off every day. I wish my
uncle had been dead before he brought us down off the moors last time.
I wish he had, I know. If I was on the moor now, after the plovers..."

"Come, come; forget all that now, and set to work," interrupted Oliver.
"If you wont call Spy to help, I will see whether he will mind me."

Spy came, with some hesitation, in answer to a whistle which was like
his master's, but not exactly the same. His master soon set him to
work, and began to work himself, in a sort of despera