CHAPTER XXXII 



THE GREENFINCH 



Or " greenulf," as the Broadsmen call him, is the dirtiest bird 

 alive — he fouls his own nest, always a stupid achievement. 

 But you shall see; for this is a beautiful April day, and the 

 bland new leaves of the hawthorn have covered the gnarled 

 stems ; for the greenfinch is wise enough not to build till the 

 thorny skeletons are clothed with verdure, and oftener with 

 beautiful " may," that perfect flower, that catches the eye of 

 many a courting greenfinch. 



Let us walk under the blue sky, flecked with soft, snowy 

 cumuli, passing some geese sleeping upon a rushy marsh, 

 the sentinel on his grassy hill calling doubtfully as we pass up 

 the white road towards the village, whence comes the fish- 

 hawker calling through the green hedgerows, sweet with the 

 voices of the whitethroats and yellow-buntings. As we near 

 the village, the cottagers, in tucked-up dresses, pop into 

 their doors with mops and buckets, peeping shyly from their 

 diamond-paned windows at the " foreigners." We are ■ 

 overtaken by a heavy field-cart as it jolts along the village 

 street, the driver sitting sideways, his hob-nailed boots 

 dangling down against the rich bay skin of his strong horse, 

 and as he leaves one end of the village we leave the other 

 for the haunt of the greenfinch — a grassy loke bordered 

 by very tall whitethorn hedges — a loke leading down to 

 the marshlands. 



Directly we enter the cool retreat, so fresh and bright 

 in its greenery, we hear the sweet voice of a yellow- 

 hammer, and also the chuckling, loud and shriller linnet- 



