234 ADVENTURES AMONG BIRDS 



shelter of a small isolated copse, by a tiny stream, at 

 the lower end of a long sloping field. It can hardly 

 be called a copse since it is composed of no more than 

 about a dozen or twenty old wide-branching oak trees 

 growing in a thicket of thorn, hazel, holly, and bramble 

 bushes. It is the best place on such a day, and finding 

 a nice spot to stand in, well sheltered from the wind, 

 I set myself to watch the open space before me. It is 

 shut in by huge disordered brambles, and might very 

 well tempt any living creature with spring in its blood, 

 moving uneasily among the roots, to come forth to sun 

 itself. The ground is scantily clothed with pale dead 

 grass mixed with old fallen leaves and here and there 

 a few tufts of dead ragwort and thistle. But in a long 

 hour's watching I see nothing; — not a rabbit, nor even 

 a woodmouse, or a field or bank vole, where at other 

 season I have seen them come out, two or three at a 

 time, and scamper over the rustling leaves in pursuit 

 of each other. Nor do I hear anything; not a bird nor 

 an insect, and no sound but the whish and murmur of 

 the wind in the stiff holly leaves and the naked grey 

 and brown and purple branches. I remember that on 

 my very last visit this same small thicket teemed with 

 life, visible and audible; it was in its spring foliage, 

 exquisitely fresh and green, sparkling with dewdrops 

 and bright with flowers about the roots — ground ivy, 

 anemone, primrose, and violet. I listened to the birds 

 until the nightingale burst into song and I could there- 

 after attend to no other. For he was newly arrived, 

 and although we have him with us every year, invariably 



