EARLY SPRING IN SAVERNAKE FOREST 87 



In East Anglia I have been informed that what 

 the bird really and truly says is — 



My toe bleeds, Betty. 



Many as are the species capable of articulate 

 speech, as we may see by referring to any orni- 

 thological work, there is no bird in our woods whose 

 notes more readily lend themselves to this childish 

 fancy than the wood-pigeon, on account of the depth 

 and singularly human quality of its voice. The song 

 is a passionate complaint. One can fancy the human- 

 Hke feathered creature in her green bower, plead- 

 ing, upbraiding, lamenting; and, listening, we will 

 find it easy enough to put it all into plain language ; 



swear not you love me, for you cannot be true, 



perjured wood-pigeon ! Go from me — woo 



Some other ! Heart-broken I rue 



That softness, ah me ! when you cooed your false coo. 



Soar to your new love — the creature in blue ! 



Who, who would have thought it of you ! 



And perhaps you consider her beau — 



Oo — tiful ! you are too too cru — 



Bid them come shoo — oot me, do, do ! 



Would I had given my heart to a hoo — 



Oo-ting wood-owl, cuckoo, woodcock, hoopoo ! 



One morning, at a village in Berkshire, I was 

 walking along the road, about twenty-five yards 

 from a cottage, when I heard, as I imagined, the 

 familiar song of the wood-pigeon ; but it sounded 



