A white or a pied bird, whether rook, blackbird, starling, finch, or
sparrow, never fails to hold the eye, and may become a character of
public interest in a neighbourhood. Its usual fate is to be shot--the
fate of any rare wild creature. The sportsman sees no special reason
for sparing a pied pheasant that has come to his coverts--he shoots it
at the first chance for the sake of the few seconds' pleasure given by
the curious plumage before it is tossed with the rest on the game-cart.
But the keeper silently mourns for the death of the pied bird. If he
voices his lament, he receives a stock answer: "Well, it is too late
now." Happy the keeper who succeeds in catching up a bird that he
treasures, so that he may give it safe shelter until the rattle of guns
is silenced.
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