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appearance of the kite assisted the longer survival of the raven, for from what Sir Thomas Browne wrote about the middle of the seventeenth century, it is evident that the two species did not dwell together in harmony, their interests being too much in common; and, writing of the ravens at Norwich, he mentions that they were in good plentie about the citty which makes so few kites to be seen hereabout.' The last ravens of London proper left Hyde Park about 1826 in consequence of their nest being destroyed by one of the keepers. On the outer fringe of the town a pair apparently nested, according to Mr. W. H. Hudson, down to 1845, at Enfield, in a clump of elm-trees known as the Seven Sisters,"

some of which were still standing in 1898. Though they were driven from London as a breeding species about the above dates, from time to time individuals have since made their appearance, but never to stay long.

Ravens are getting scarce in these islands, but perhaps one day some wise individual may discover that London, where there are no prowling gamekeepers or gunners, is after all a very safe place. As for food, he might find, as the big gulls in the Zoo have found out, that sparrows are plentiful and not bad eating. There are several members of the Corvidae family still among us, more particularly on the outskirts. The carrion crow is con

stantly flying over London, resting sometimes in our inner parks, or perhaps more frequently resorting to the muddy foreshores of the Thames at low tide, picking up anything edible that has been washed ashore. Sometimes it will drop almost on to the water in its flight, and will pick up floating morsels with the dexterity of a seagull. The crow is not a gregarious bird, but goes about usually either singly or in pairs, and though sadly diminished in numbers as compared with former years, its hoarse croak and black plumage are still familiar in the various parks and old gardens of the metropolis. Immediately outside they become numerous, and it is no doubt from the birds that breed in the home counties that the London crows are recruited.

where rookeries still exist; but the London establishments are a thing of the past, with the single notable exception of a very small colony that survives in Gray's Inn Gardens, where the birds have again started repairing their old nests. The larger London rookery of Kensington Gardens was broken up about a quarter of a century ago in consequence of the short-sighted policy of the authorities in cutting down a large number of the fine old trees. In their ignorance they thought the rooks would take up their abode in the neighbouring trees, but, as those who knew anything of the ways of these peculiar socialistic colonists predicted, they promptly removed from the district altogether. In a somewhat similar manner the Greenwich Park rookery was destroyed. It is not, however, outside the realms of possibility that even after this long interval of desertion they may return, for the ways of the rooks

are full of mystery, and the tendency in our splendid open spaces at the present day is towards an increase of bird life.

The woodpigeons, loafers from the country, have only within recent years taken up a town residence in preference to their rural habitats, and the stock-dove seems to be following their example.

It is strange that the cheery jackdaw has never obtained a stronger footing in our centre, for in most of our old towns it haunts the church spires and cathedrals, taking the place there which the much crossed and recrossed domestic pigeon occupies in London. Although numerous in the near suburbs, where its

graceful flight and bright cry and cheery disposition are great attractions, the only colony that we can boast of is a small one in Kensington Gardens and Holland Park. There is also, I believe, a pair in residence in the tower of St. Pancras Church.

The only other remaining member of this family, the screeching and gaudy-plumaged jay, is not to be seen except in the open spaces on the borders, such as Wimbledon, Hampstead, and Wanstead.

It is with feelings of great regret that the bird-lover scans the steadily increasing list of species that have deserted or are deserting the British Islands. The causes are manifold, the great

increase of game preservation, and the reclamation of our marshes and waste lands being perhaps the chief ones. These changes have operated strongly on what is now known as the London area, for we have it on record that during the reign of Henry VIII. the spoonbills bred in the Bishop's Park at Fulham, still an open space for Londoners. That quaint bird has now completely disappeared from our shores as a breeding species, and those few wanderers which at odd times still find their way here pay for their recklessness at the hand of the heedless gunner or the remorseless collector.

In the sixteenth century there was also a well-established heronry in the same park at Fulham, and even now we have the

consolation of knowing that we need not go far out of the metropolis to find the bird nesting, for there are heronries in Richmond and Wanstead Parks, in both of which places they are rigorously protected. It was, too, in still more recent time that snipe were shot on the Lambeth Marshes, and no doubt the redshank and many another marsh-loving bird haunted the place, which is now built over.

Like the heron, the snipe is still to be found on the outskirts, and only last year I found three nests with eggs within fifteen miles of the City, and within two hundred yards of one of the main roads from London.

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Though these birds have been driven away by the encroachments of a great expanding city, it is a comfort to the bird-lover to see that within recent years other species have arrived to take their place. The moor-hens, or moat-hens, as they were called in bygone days, in their wanderings found our London parks eminently suited to their taste, and have spread to almost every suitable lake within our borders that possesses the attractions of reeds or overhanging undergrowth. They may be seen at all seasons of the year making their way quietly across the water with curious jerks of the head and tail, exposing the pure white feathers below. Often, too, they may be seen wandering in search of food on the grassy banks in company with the other waterfowl, and it is amusing

to watch them strutting about with the same peculiar jerky movement, and showing extreme resentment if too closely approached by their companions.

The bird is crepuscular in habits, and delights to croak and wander about in the twilight. It is possible that in consequence of its fondness for the hours of dusk the white of the underpart of the tail may play an important part in revealing its presence to its mate, in much the same manner that a rabbit is often only seen in the dark as it scuttles along by the glint of its white tail.

A still more interesting bird has taken up its abode in similar quarters. This is the little grebe or dabchick, which only thirty years ago was almost unknown to our parks. It has evidently