48 BIRDS IN TOWN AND VILLAGE 



There were about the village, within a few 

 minutes* walk of the cottage, not fewer than 

 half-a-dozen tree-pipits, each inhabiting a favour- 

 ite spot where I could always count on finding 

 and hearing him at almost any hour of the day 

 from sunrise to sunset. Yet I cared not for 

 these. To the one chosen bird I returned daily 

 to spend the hot hours, lying in the shade and 

 listening to his strain. Finally, I allowed two 

 or three days to slip by, and when I revisited the 

 old spot the secret charm had vanished. The 

 bird was there, and rose and fell as formerly, 

 pouring out his melody; but it was not the same: 

 something was missing from those last sweet, 

 languishing notes. Perhaps in the interval there 

 had been some disturbing accident in his little wild 

 life, though I could hardly believe it, since his 

 mate was still sitting about thirty yards from the 

 tree on the five little mottled eggs in her nest. 

 Or perhaps his midsummer's music had reached 

 its highest point, and was now in Its declension. 

 And perhaps the fault was In me. The virtue 

 that draws and holds us does not hold us always, 

 nor very long; it departs from all things, and we 

 wonder why. The loss is in ourselves, although 



