A TIRED TRAVELLER 97 



me, flirting his tail and wings ; and once or twice, 

 opening wide his beak, he uttered his alarm-note, a 

 sound closely resembling the harsh, prolonged cry 

 of the familiar missel thrush. But these little signs 

 of alarm were soon over, and he grew quiet, only con- 

 tinuing to emit his low musical chirp a dozen or more 

 times a minute. 



To me the meeting was a peculiarly happy one, since 

 if I had been asked to choose a bird, one of our 

 common winter visitors, to be with me in this 

 quiet, lonely place, I think I should have said " Let 

 it be a redwing." He has a special attraction for me 

 for various reasons. He is, I think, the most charming 

 of the thrushes, both in shape and colouring. All 

 of this family are dear to me, and I perhaps admire 

 the others more — the fieldfare, for instance, the 

 chattering winter " blue-bird " ; and the missel- 

 thrush, the loud-voiced storm-cock that sings in wet 

 and blowy weather in February ; and, above all, the 

 blackbird, the big, ebony-black thrush with a golden 

 bill and fluting voice ; but I love the redwing more. 

 There is a wildness, a freshness, in the feeling he gives 

 me which may be partly due to the fact that he is not 

 a cage-bird, that, on this account, there are no degrad- 

 ing images and associations connected with this species. 

 It is true that he is a sweet singer, the " Swedish 

 nightingale " of Linnaeus, but he only sings his full 

 song with the louder notes at home, in summer, in the 

 distant north ; and on this account those dreariest 

 Philistines, the bird fanciers or " aviculturists," as they 



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