190 BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 



meadows for miles and miles, now become covered with their milk- 

 like blossoms, and the fruit trees in the orchards and gardens begin 

 to look like mountains of crimson or snowy foam. Whichever way 

 we turn, we see the broad earth mantled in a garniture of beauty, 

 and robed from head to foot with leaves and flowers. 



But the joy of spring is its exuberance of song. What charms 

 would there be in forest dell, in green lane, or on the mountain's 

 side, if iheie were no voices for the echoes to play with ? That hea- 

 venly music so subdues us with its influence, that our pulses throb 

 with exultation, and our hearts beat high with thankfulness. Who 

 could cherish sordid thoughts or misanthropic feelings while listening 

 to their impassioned outbursts of song, wantoning in very joyousness 

 and buoyancy of heart ? Verily, birds were sent to give us a fore- 

 taste of the music which haunts those higher spheres, where the 

 songs of happy souls make melodies for ever. Before a leaf is on the 

 trees, we hear the rich whistle of the blackbird, and the loud note of 

 the missel-thrush ; the song-thrush, too, will now and then strike up 

 a few notes from the leafless brake, and then pause to listen to the 

 echoes which his own song has awakened. 



And as the year wears on, little birds come in by twos and threes ; 

 the wryneck, with its beautiful plumage, marked with every variety of 

 dazzling colour ; the tiny willow-wren, with its shrill chirp, hopping 

 and skipping, and fliiting among the osier-beds ; the blue titmouse, 

 with its soft plumage ; and the gay yellow-hammer, and the wood- 

 lark ; all make siich a '-'sweet piping" that the woods echo wivh their 

 songs; and in the deep green soli'Lude we hear the mournful cooing 

 of the wood-pigeon, as he shares with bis mate her watchfulness; 

 and in every lane and field we hear the spring-note of the cuckoo, 

 which, eilher fiom its peculiar sound, or from the memories which 

 crowd upon us when we hear it, seems to ring thioughour very hearts, 

 and make the blood mantle to our cheeks with inexpressible excitement. 

 And when the wood-ant begins to build her nest, and butterflies and 

 gaudy moths go sporting in the sunbeams, and when the hedges are 

 filled wiih fragrant and snowy blooms, and the whole floor of earth is 

 jewelled wiih urnimnbered flowers, the blessed nightingale comes, 

 like a spirit which h^s winged its lonely flight from heaven, to tell 

 how angels sigh and sorrow for us. In the solemn stillness, when 

 night has wrapped the earui in her sofl mantle, and the flowers sit 

 weeping in dewy silence, the woods gush with magic melodies, some- 



