Not a bird's
nest, not a nut, must be touched: still less anything that could be
called game. The watch kept was so much the stricter because he took a
personal part in it, and was often round the fields himself armed with a
great oak staff. It seemed, indeed, as if the preservation of the game
was of far greater importance to him than the shooting of it afterwards.
All the fowls of the air flocked to Southlands, as if it had been a
refuge; yet it was not a large estate. Into the forest we had been, but
Southlands was a mystery, a forbidden garden of delight, with the terror
of an oaken staff (and unknown penalties) turning this way and that.
Therefore the stunted old oak on the verge--the moss-grown merestone by
the pond marked the limit--was so favourite a perching-place.
That beautiful afternoon I leaned both arms idly on the great bough that
crossed in front of the seat and listened to the 'Caw--caw!' of the
rooks as they looked to see if the acorns were yet ripening. A dead
branch that had dropped partly into the brook was swayed continually up
and down by the current, the water as it chafed against it causing a
delicious murmur. This lulled me to sleep.
I woke with a start, and had it not been for the bough crossing in front
must have fallen twenty feet. Looking down into the meadow as soon as my
eyes were thoroughly open, I instantly noticed a covey of young
partridges a little way up beside the hedge among the molehills.
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