e. As
a boy I once marked a green woodpecker into one of the round holes we
see quite newly cut by the bird in an oak; getting a butterfly net I
clapped it over the hole, caught the bird, took it home and placed it
in a wicker cage. Then, returning to the tree with a chisel and
mallet, I cut a hole about a foot below the entrance to the nest, only
to find young birds instead of the eggs for which I had hoped. I went
home to see how my captive was getting on; she was gone, and her
method of escape was plain, one or two of the wicker bars being neatly
cut through. I had forgotten the power of "stocking" of a
"stock-eagle," for that is the meaning of the prefix in the name.

The laughing cry of the green woodpecker, or "yaffle," as the bird is
by onomatopoeia called in some parts, is regarded as a sign of rain. I
doubt whether it should be always so interpreted, for I know it is
sometimes a sign of distress or call for help, having heard it from
one in full flight from a pursuing hawk. Other curious local names of
birds in Worcestershire are "Blue Isaac" for hedge sparrow,
"mumruffin" for long-tailed tit, "maggot" for magpie, and the heron is
always called "bittern" (really quite a distinct bird). There are
innumerable rhymes as to the signification of numbers where magpies
are concerned, but the most complete I have heard runs thus:

"One's joy, two's grief,
Three's marriage, four's death,
Five's heaven, six is hell,
Seven's the devil his own sel'."

Other rhymes make "one" an unlucky number, and there are many people
in Worcestershire who never see a solitary magpie without touching
their hats to avert the omen, and convert it to one of good-luck; as a
man once said to me, "It is as well not to lose a chance."

The kingfisher, I suppose the most beautiful of British birds, was,
with all my brooks, a common bird at Aldington. Its steady flight,
following the course of a stream, and its brilliant colouring make it
very conspicuous, its turquoise blue varying to dark green, and its
orange breast flashing in the sun. I found a nest in a water-rat's old
hole, with six very transparent white eggs, deriving a rosy tint from
the yolk, almost visible, within the shell. The hole had an entrance
above the bank, descended vertically, turned at a right angle where
the nest, merely a layer of small fish-bones, was placed, and ended
horizontally on the side of the bank. I once saw six young kingfishers
sitting