THE WOOD-WEEN 21 



60, when his sweet little trial song was ended — 

 a simple and unpretending song, meant only for 

 his own uncritical ears — he set his thoughts on 

 supper. Presently, having found the evening 

 duns plentiful among the leafy bowers fringing 

 the river, he retired to the blackthorn thickets 

 in the middle of the island, and tucked his head 

 under his wing, just as the sky was darkened 

 in the west and the last lay of the willow-wren 

 was hushed in the sprouting alders. 



The night passed uneventfully, save that the 

 hoot of an owl, coming from the woods across the 

 river, caused a momentary feeling of insecurity, 

 and a thrush in the furze-brake beneath the twig 

 on which the warbler slept gave a false alarm, 

 imagining that a weasel was wandering in the 

 thicket. In the twilight of dawn the warbler 

 awoke, but the air was damp and chill, and he 

 did not leave his perch till the first rays of the 

 ascending sun lit up the thatched roof of the 

 farmstead on the hill, and the leisurely rooks 

 crossed the valley from the elms near a lonely 

 mansion to the dewy ploughlands where the 

 worms had not yet descended into the lower 

 galleries of their burrows after their night's 

 wanderings in the open air. White clouds passed 

 slowly overhead on the breath of a north-west 

 wind. The leaves of the hawthorn and woodbine 

 were half unfolded ; awaiting the coming of the 



