BIRDS IN A VILLAGE 155 



of it, I am inclined to think that there is some- 

 thing wrong with the person who thus describes 

 it; that he is not exactly as nature would have 

 had him, but that either during his independent 

 life, or before it at some period of his prenatal 

 existence, something must have happened to dis- 

 tune him. All this, I freely confess, may be noth- 

 ing but fancy. In any case, the subject need not 

 keep us longer from the greenfinch — that is to 

 say, my greenfinch not another man's. 



From morning until evening all around and 

 about the cottage, and out of doors whithersoever 

 I bent my steps, from the masses of deep green 

 foliage, sounded the perpetual airy prattle of 

 these delightful birds. One had the idea that 

 the concealed vocalists were continually meeting 

 each other at little social gatherings, where they 

 exchanged pretty loving greetings, and indulged 

 in a leafy gossip, interspersed with occasional 

 fragments of music, vocal and instrumental; now 

 a long trill — a trilling, a tinkling, a sweeping of 

 one minute finger-tip over metal strings as fine as 

 gossamer threads — describe it how you will, you 

 cannot describe it; then the long, low, inflected 

 scream, like a lark's throat-note drawn out and 



