trable crows, most talkative of birds and most uncommunicative, their very food at this season a mystery, are almost as numerous now as in summer.
They always seem like some race of banished goblins, doing penance for some primeval and inscrutable transgression, and if any bird have a history, it is they.
In the Spanish version of the tradition of King Arthur, it is said that he fled from the weeping queens and the island valley of Avilion in the form of a crow; and hence it is said in Don Quixote that no Englishman will ever kill one.
The traces of the insect-world in winter are prophetic,—from the delicate cocoon of some infinitesimal feathery thing which hangs upon the dry, starry calyx of the aster, to the large brown-paper parcel which hides in peasant garb the costly beauty of some gorgeous moth.
But the hints of birds are retrospective.
In each tree of this pasture, the very pasture where last spring we looked for nests and found them not among the deceitful foliage, th