The Murder of Crows
The Horde of People were like a Brood of Hens
or a Charm of Finches,
but this Host of Sparrows,
in the Company of Parrots, became
a Gaggle of Geese
and a Passel of Woodpeckers,
then transformed into
a Siege of Herons,
behaving like a Scold of Jays,
or a Tiding of Magpies
and would never make
a Parliament of Owls or a Covey of Doves.
More a Mischief of Mice.
As a Tower of Giraffes,
this Caravan of Camels were not
just a Flock of Sheep or
a Herd of Cows,
more a Crash of Rhinoceroses than
a Cloud of Grasshoppers
that endured as a Swarm of Bees or
a Plague of Locusts,
albeit sometimes they could be
a Colony of Ants
they were almost never a Clowder of Cats,
a Litter of Puppies or a String of Ponies.
More a Pack of Wolves and
Not as a School of Dolphins either
but a Run of Salmon, was more their thing
and a Gam of Whales
could never describe them accurately,
nor could a Bale of Turtles
or a Lounge of Lizards,
they were more a Bask of Crocodiles
than a Leap of Leopards or
a Pride of Lions
and it’s perhaps as a Trip of Goats
in the Business of Ferrets, or
a Skulk of Foxes they’re best remembered.
Like a Knot of Snakes
or A Murder of Crows.
The Diary of the Reverend Henry Turnbull
[Entry for Friday 12th May 1899]
‘It’s been some little while since last I took to pen and committed my thoughts once again to this diary. In truth I have not been completely myself and in some ways sense that all is not right within me and hard though this is to explain, I feel that Our Dear Lord may have plans for me rather sooner than I’d anticipated.
With this in mind I took a somewhat truncated walk to Three Mills on the River Lea, with the idea of returning by boat or perhaps staying at my old friend Decimus Newland’s hotel, The White Hart in the village of Clapton.
Three Mills are a marvellous creation and appear to have weathered many a storm from both God and man and it has now Nicholson’s, the gin manufacturer, as its tenant. They produce some fine sprit, though not for this unfortunate soul who as a young man became all too familiar with its vice before his calling.
It was during my walk that I chanced upon an extraordinary sight that even Mr Darwin would have an opinion on and it was thus: I had been somewhat waylaid talking to the keeper near the locks below Three Mills when the most awful kerfuffle broke out before me, indeed the smallest of birds flew so close to my face it nearly took my nose off in its twisting and spiralling flight.
This bird was followed by a second then a third all of which were haranguing a huge crow of the most beautiful full black hue. The smaller birds appeared to be very cross with the crow and I identified them as carduelli, or goldfinches who were making terrific fuss, and lambasting the crow all the way to the ground from where it became most angry.
Then, all of a sudden, and with astonishing speed and dexterity the crow somehow contrived to actually take a hold of one of the smaller birds, to which its compatriots took great offence, and flew to higher vantage. But of course there was nothing they could do but make further noise, which they did and then, before before my very eyes, I witnessed the most mysterious of God’s works as the crow proceeded to eat the smaller bird alive. Alive I say!
Upon my soul I’m not sure I’ve ever beheld such a scene of utter sadness in nature and even now I cannot believe this smaller bird was eaten there and then in front of me. It was a most astonishing scene and impressed upon me the fragility of all of our Lord’s creation and is something to which I will refer to in my sermon on Sunday next.’
The Diary of The Reverend Henry Turnbull Vol III
attrib: ‘The Turnbull’s of Suffolk’ by Thomas Bell pub 1947