7O A bout the Feathered Folk. 



To hear a Skylark singing in the 

 sunlit air is to be made happier if 

 one has but half an ear, but half a 

 heart at leisure, wherewith to listen. 



There is not a tired tramp on a 

 lonely road who cannot be cheered 

 by such music ; not a child dragging 

 at the bloom of the buttercups but 

 pauses, with its feet in the meadow- 

 grass and its hands full of the 

 meadow's gold, to gaze up at the 

 tiny speck in the blue, from whence 

 such rivers of melody come rippling 

 down. 



We love the birds; we love to 

 see them flying through our British 

 woods, or sailing down our British 

 seas. Let us lift a thanksgiving 

 now and then in gratitude that 

 some at least of them can sing. 



One night in autumn I was on 

 board a steam-yacht off the western 

 coast of Scotland. The weather 

 was stormy, the strong tide-currents 

 lifted the waves in angry strife ; the 



