The Story of George
"The swallows are gathering in the barn. They will fly at three o'clock."
"At three?"
"Yes, they will fly to the pond, and by seven they will all have returned. We wish success to the swallows."
"May the swallows catch many midges."
This was the kind of strange conversation that my friend Jo and I used to have on the phone all the time when we were children, in the hope that the Secret Police were listening. We never found out whether they were.
Meanwhile, I had a crow called George. He had glossy black wings with a few strange white feathers, and no tail at all. Someone had found him and brought him to my friend Gillian who worked at the RSPCA, and she brought him to me, so that I could look after him while his tail feathers grew back.
Rooks, which are of course a close relative of crows, are pretty good Goth birds: all that mournful cawing from their nests in the tops of trees, and the Hitchcockian flapping of their wings if you are near to them. But they are rather too conformist. They like to follow the crowd: they all feed together and, if disturbed, all fly off together.
Crows, however, are individuals. They may all be feeding together just because that's where the food is, but make a loud noise and they all fly off in different directions. Hence the old saying "A crow in a crowd is a rook" - that's how you can instantly tell the difference.
George lived in a large rabbit run, and thrived on cat food. After a few weeks his tail had grown back and it was time to do my Born Free bit and release him into the wild. With a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes I flung open the door of the rabbit run, and waited for him to fly out.
No chance. Sod the wild, there wasn't any cat food there. He was staying firmly where he was.
He stayed in the run for days and days, eating like a pig and smirking as only a crow can smirk. We put him in a box (not easy) and took him to the woods, and tipped him out of the box, and came home.
The next morning he was waiting outside the rabbit run, looking distinctly peeved.
Finally, we took to putting the food outside the rabbit run and he condescended to move out, but never went far, returning at intervals for some Kit e Kat. He hung around the garden for years.
I have had a fondness for crows ever since. They are the clever pirates of the skies: they lurk high up in trees, and come clattering down to nick anything they can. Good luck to them.
"The swallows are gathering in the barn. They will fly at three o'clock."
"At three?"
"Yes, they will fly to the pond, and by seven they will all have returned. We wish success to the swallows."
"May the swallows catch many midges."
This was the kind of strange conversation that my friend Jo and I used to have on the phone all the time when we were children, in the hope that the Secret Police were listening. We never found out whether they were.
Meanwhile, I had a crow called George. He had glossy black wings with a few strange white feathers, and no tail at all. Someone had found him and brought him to my friend Gillian who worked at the RSPCA, and she brought him to me, so that I could look after him while his tail feathers grew back.
Rooks, which are of course a close relative of crows, are pretty good Goth birds: all that mournful cawing from their nests in the tops of trees, and the Hitchcockian flapping of their wings if you are near to them. But they are rather too conformist. They like to follow the crowd: they all feed together and, if disturbed, all fly off together.
Crows, however, are individuals. They may all be feeding together just because that's where the food is, but make a loud noise and they all fly off in different directions. Hence the old saying "A crow in a crowd is a rook" - that's how you can instantly tell the difference.
George lived in a large rabbit run, and thrived on cat food. After a few weeks his tail had grown back and it was time to do my Born Free bit and release him into the wild. With a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes I flung open the door of the rabbit run, and waited for him to fly out.
No chance. Sod the wild, there wasn't any cat food there. He was staying firmly where he was.
He stayed in the run for days and days, eating like a pig and smirking as only a crow can smirk. We put him in a box (not easy) and took him to the woods, and tipped him out of the box, and came home.
The next morning he was waiting outside the rabbit run, looking distinctly peeved.
Finally, we took to putting the food outside the rabbit run and he condescended to move out, but never went far, returning at intervals for some Kit e Kat. He hung around the garden for years.
I have had a fondness for crows ever since. They are the clever pirates of the skies: they lurk high up in trees, and come clattering down to nick anything they can. Good luck to them.
posted by Daphne at 5:29 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home