MY WOODLAND. 63 



always be found, summer and winter, rain or 

 shine. It would be strange if in a place like this 

 one did not find many rare species. It may seem 

 very conceited to say so, but I have almost con- 

 cluded that a bird that cannot be found here is 

 scarcely worth finding. I am tempted to call it a 

 bird microcosm, and be done. How many times 

 as I have strolled through this rambling ground 

 the unexpected has happened ! I cannot forbear 

 making special mention of two or three of these 

 experiences, which memory holds so pleasantly in 

 leash. 



One (Jay in early spring I had a glorious sur- 

 prise. Approaching this spot, I was suddenly 

 brought to a standstill by hearing a bird-song that 

 drifted sweetly to my ears from the copse. It was 

 new to me. Oh, what a blithe, liquid melody it 

 was ! The tones were full, clear and bubbling. 

 Such a ringing note of gladness ran through them 

 that the sunshine seemed to grow brighter, the 

 leaves of the bushes and trees fluttered merrily as 

 if they had been caught in the lyrical spell, and 

 the whole woodland appeared to be in league with 

 Echo's tricksy voices. 



With quickened footsteps and fluttering pulses 

 I pushed my way into the bushy inclosure. There 



