the dear little emotional soul, that had so fit a tenement and
so fitly expressed itself in motions of such exquisite grace,
in melody so sweet! Did it go out like the glow-worm's lamp,
the life and sweetness of the flower? Was its destiny not
like that of the soul, specialized in a different direction,
of the saint or poet or philosopher! Alas, they can tell us
nothing!

I could not go away leaving it in that exposed place on the
turf, to be found a little later by a magpie or carrion crow
or fox, and devoured. Close by there was a small round
hillock, an old forsaken nest of the little brown ants, green
and soft with moss and small creeping herbs--a suitable grave
for a wheatear. Cutting out a round piece of turf from the
side, I made a hole with my stick and put the dead bird in and
replacing the turf left it neatly buried.

It was not that I had or have any quarrel with the creatures
I have named, or would have them other than they are
--carrion-eaters and scavengers, Nature's balance-keepers and
purifiers. The only creatures on earth I loathe and hate are
the gourmets, the carrion-crows and foxes of the human kind
who devour wheatears and skylarks at their tables.




Chapter Thirteen: Bath and Wells Revisited