evening comes on. When the total eclipse of the sun occurred in January 1898, the Crows of Viziadroog, where I was encamped, were quite taken in and all gathered together in the sleeping-tree. When day reappeared, almost before they had got their heads tucked in, they all started into the air with a simultaneous shout of surprise and indignation. They seemed to think that a practical joke had been played upon them. I do not know why they sleep together. It may be for safety, for, though Crows have not many enemies, there is a large horned owl which wrings their necks at night. I esteem the horned owl for that. It may seem uncharitable in me, but I confess that I cannot extend to the Crow those feelings with which I regard all other birds, I have never felt a qualm of conscience about taking a Crow's life. It is not their depredations, nor their impudence, nor their rowdy noises. I could endure all these. What I cannot forgive is the constant and ruthless massacre of innocents that goes on where Crows are allowed to have their own way. They watch every little bird to find out if it has a nest, they count the days tilt the first young sparrow flutters out on its untried wings, they pounce upon it and carry it to the nearest tree and hold it under one foot and pick it to pieces, absolutely callous to the shrieks of the parents as they flutter round, distracted but helpless. For this I shoot the Crow without remorse.
Though they sleep together, the Crows do not breed in company. Each pair makes its nest apart, in a mango tree if there is one at hand. The nest is a clumsy-looking structure, but very strongly put together, and in the centre there is a neatly-made
