The grasses at the edge--the turf--curl over and begin to grow down the
steep side that a little while since was washed by the current. Where
there is a ledge of mud and sand the yellow wagtail runs; he stands on a
stone and jerks his tail.
The ploughed field that comes down almost to the brook--a mere strip of
meadow between--is green too with rising wheat, high enough now to hide
the partridges. Before it got so tall it was pleasant to watch the pair
that frequent it; they were so confident that they did not even trouble
to cower. At any other time of year they would have run, or flown; but
then, though scarcely forty yards away and perfectly visible, they
simply ceased feeding but showed no further alarm.
Upon the plough birds in general should look as their best friend, for
it provides them with the staff of life as much as it does man. The
earth turned up under the share yields them grubs and insects and worms:
the seed is sown and the clods harrowed, and they take a second toll;
the weeds are hoed or pulled up, and at their roots there are more
insects; from the stalk and ears and the bloom of the rising corn they
seize caterpillars; when it is ripe they enjoy the grain; when it is cut
and carried there are ears in the stubble, and they can then feast on
the seeds of the innumerable plants that flowered among it; finally
comes the plough again.
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