If no two
gentlemen can be found to oblige with a fight, the next noisiest
thing to fall back upon is held to be a song. It is no satisfaction
to me to be told that rooks cannot sing. _I_ know that, without the
trouble of referring to the natural history book. It is the rook
who does not know it; HE thinks he can; and as a matter of fact, he
does. You can criticize his singing, you can call it what you like,
but you can't stop it--at least, that is my experience. The song
selected is sure to be one with a chorus. Towards the end it
becomes mainly chorus, unless the soloist be an extra powerful bird,
determined to insist upon his rights.
The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up himself about
seven--three hours after all the others have finished breakfast--and
then fusses round under the impression that he is waking up the
colony, the fat-headed old fool. He is the poorest thing in
Presidents I have ever heard of. A South American Republic would
supply a better article. The rooks themselves, the married
majority, fathers of families, respectable nestholders, are as
indignant as I am. I hear complaints from all quarters.
Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill
afternoons in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate watching
the noisy bustling in the bare elms.
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