170 



SUMMER 



The nightingale soon breaks out singing again from his 

 thicket, and the dawn has its jubilant cries ; the impression 

 is quickly eclipsed, but returns with gradually increasing 

 frequency as the summer goes on. July dawns are mistier 

 than those of June, and far more still ; instead of the chorus 

 of all the birds, we hear little but the chirp of the sparrows 

 presaging heat, the faithful crooning of the ring-dove, or the 

 deep and rasping caws with which the rooks at this time of 

 morning post from tree to tree on their way to their feeding- 

 grounds. August dawns break later and mistier still ; and 

 now, in the weeks of deepest silence by day, the piercing 

 warble of the robin is lifted to the earliest stain of light. It 

 is his autumn song renewed ; the birds' moulting time, which 

 forms the only real break in the circle of the English seasons, 

 has intervened since he lifted his voice in the paean of the 

 midsummer morning, and this song already tells that it is 

 passing. 



