THE FAERY YEAR 



Birds in August 



At the second blooming of the honeysuckle, the 

 bird concert in the deep woods has almost ceased. 

 The tearing cry of the jay and the loud laughter of 

 the green woodpecker are not out of harmony with 

 time and scene, but neither can be called music. 

 The yellow hammer has done, and not a thrush or 

 blackbird gives a single bar. But for the perpetual 

 ringdove which still has unfledged young and for 

 the robin, there would be no bird-song now in the 

 oak and hazel woods. At half-past four in the 

 morning the robins are without a rival, for in late 

 August the very wren is dumb. The robin at dawn 

 is good to hear. There is a strain of tenderness 

 even in his least developed efforts which always 

 appeals to us. At present the robin's song is not 

 quite developed. One may listen to the birds sing- 

 ing against one another in the quiet of August 

 woods and recognize little of the familiar robin lay 

 except this pathetic quality. One snatch recalls the 

 hurried whitethroat, another has a suggestion of 

 starling. The robins of August, challenging one 

 another, sing without style or experience ; it is little 

 but a collection of odds and ends, halting and 

 abrupt. But a few weeks' practice will make the 

 perfect robin melody, which is almost as much a 

 feature of the English autumn as the falling leaves. 



The most beautiful and finished passages in the 

 songs of blackcaps, nightingales, thrushes, blackbirds, 

 robins, and other birds must come through practice. 

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