THE ARTIST AND THE BIRD 



smaller leaves of the hedge. Autumn after 

 autumn, the discarded foliage has fallen, slowly- 

 blending with the damp mould : and save for the 

 moss on the old stone, and the touch of red of the 

 sorrel, there is no hint of bright colours— a study 

 in drabs, browns and greys alone is given, most 

 unobtrusive, yet so skilfully mingled and con- 

 trasted that it possesses a beauty entirely its 

 own. And now if we scrutinize the plumage of 

 the partridge, for whom this recess is the inner- 

 most home, we find every combination in the 

 shades of the dead and dying leaves presented 

 to us again, even down to the touch of red sorrel 

 on the tail. 



To the wanderer in the open a thousand hints 

 will come of this reproduction of colour. The 

 dipper in the stream suggests a black pebble 

 flecked with foam from the waterfall : the willow 

 wren in hue, and even in form, finds its counter- 

 part in the young, greenish-yellow leaves of the 

 poplar amidst which it so gracefully moves. Of 

 the wonderful analogies between flowers and 

 butterflies much might be said. One remarkable 

 instance, however, must suffice. Look inside 

 the bell of a foxglove and note the delicate pattern 

 formed by the brown and black spots. Then 

 examine the underside of the wing of the common 

 blue butterfly, and see how accurately this charm- 

 ing little device has been copied. In most of 

 these cases there is no question of protective 

 arrangement involved : the idea seems to be the 

 mere reproduction of something beautiful in 

 itself. 



The Great Artist Nature, indeed, must have had 

 an abundance of colour — blue, for instance — when 

 she painted the skies : she might well spare a 

 little to touch the wings of the butterfly, the 

 petals of the bluebell, and the eggs of the hedge- 

 sparrow. 



