A Book on Birds 



Then comes another, longer period of 

 somnolence, from which a Robin, off in the 

 gloom somewhere, delivers us with his 

 most extended strain. And later on the 

 Flicker and the Grasshopper Sparrow sing. 



But that one golden throat, which so 

 far surpasses all these, and which, heard in 

 the darkness, we had fancied might vie 

 with the Nightingale's, is still missing; 

 until doubt asserts itself again, and the 

 silver flood from the sky begins to seem 

 poor and pale and sorrowful for lack of it. 



The '^Caw, caw, caw!'' of a Crow, flying 

 too high overhead to be visible, sounds like 

 mockery of our expectations. Then a 

 noticeable chill in the atmosphere creates 

 a creepy feeling; which increases as the 

 Yellow-breasted Chat flings out his weird, 

 uncanny notes, as if in actual derision. 



And so the night passes; until a last long 

 interval of semi-consciousness is broken by 

 the clarion call of Sir Chanticleer from the 

 barnyard beyond the hill to which our 

 wheat-field is appurtenant; and, rising 

 suddenly, somewhat bewildered, we discover 



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