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morning sunshine; their throat feathers were
ruffled as if they were fighting hawks. They flew in
narrowing circles round Countess Märta, swooping
down with claws and beaks at her face and hands,
and she was forced to turn and rush into the hall
and shut the door behind her. She leaned against
it, panting with fright, while the laughing magpies
circled outside. And thus was she shut away from
the beauty and greenness of summer and from all
the joy of life. The future held for her only closed
rooms and drawn curtains, despair and fear and
bewilderment bordering on madness.
This story may sound crazy, but it must be true.
Hundreds will recognize it and bear witness that
such is the old tradition. The birds settled down
on the balustrade and on the roof; they sat there as
if waiting to throw themselves upon Countess Märta
as soon as she showed herself. They took up their
quarters in the park, and there they remained. It was
impossible to drive them from the place, and it was
only worse if you tried to shoot them. For every
one that fell came ten new arrivals. Sometimes great
numbers of them flew away to feed, but they always
left faithful sentinels on guard. And if Countess
Märta showed herself, if she looked out of the
window, or even drew aside a curtain for a moment,
or attempted to go out upon the steps, they
surrounded her instantly. The whole swarm flew
headlong toward the house with the thunder of beating
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