Jackdaws or rooks, they took possession of the big tower and of the little one, and they have kept it since. By day they go afield for their food; but sundown always finds them in loud and general debate on the stone railing of the red tower. They sit in military files discussing the subject in hand in very human fashion: now one at a time, and again all together, squawking at the top of their voices. Year by year their number grows, since no marten can reach them on their roost. There came a time when it seemed as if something ought to be done, if they were not to practically own the town. The matter came up in council, and the debate that ensued was worthy of the best days of the Old Town. The consensus of opinion was that they were getting to be a nuisance; but how to stop it was another matter. “They are here,” said one of the city fathers, “and what are you going to do about it?” There was no answer. Upon the question what was their diet no one could shed any definite light; but it suggested a ray of hope to one. “They might,” he ventured, “be good to eat.” The city fathers considered one another thoughtfully. They were certainly fat. If they were to turn out a new kind of game, now! It ended, after long debate, in a committee being appointed to take the matter under practical advisement, with directions to report at a future meeting whether the rooks were good eating, or, if not, how they disagreed with a councilman’s stomach. Six months had passed when last I fished with a member of the committee. He screwed up his mouth and shook his head dubiously as he made a cast for a pickerel hiding in the rushes. “They are fat, yes,” he said ruefully. “They might be good, and then again--they might make you sick.” Caution, says an ancient Danish proverb, is the virtue of a burgomaster. It ought at least to be the privilege of a councilman.