THE FAERY YEAR 



weeks of practice, as clear and fine now as they can 

 ever be. But in any case "careless rapture" is 

 never characteristic of the song thrush lay rather 

 the song appeals to one as the outcome of study 

 and deliberation. 



The song thrush is a "word-mosaic artificer" 

 among the bird poets. A blackbird at his best sings 

 as if he does not know what was coming next 

 come what may, it is sure to be of the choicest. 

 He sings his songs too as for the matter of this 

 does the thrush thirty times over. No musician, 

 then, disputes the cluster pines with the blackbird. 

 But the willow wren here adds his tribute, humble 

 as the widow's mite. 



If we creep under his bough and watch and 

 listen within a yard or two and it is easy enough 

 to get within all but a longing touch of the willow 

 wren in May we find that really the lay is 

 astonishingly loud for such a minute creature. 

 His spindle legs are scarcely thicker than those 

 which bear a butterfly. He glances down with 

 a quick bright eye, is reassured by the stillness 

 and innocent carriage of the watcher, and, a yard 

 away, breaks into song again, beak wide open, 

 throat distended, whole body a-thrill. If I had 

 the art and time of the bird-charmer, I should 

 wish to have the willow wren singing whilst sitting 

 on my little finger a coarse perch, though, for 

 those frail, tinted legs. 



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