34 Idylls of the Field. 



who has sung to us through the dark December days, 

 now with blither strain, clearer and more confident 

 as the days draw near that bring a fuller crimson to 

 his breast, pours out his heart in bursts of happy 

 song. 



But chief of all, now, while still the year is young, 

 sweetest perhaps before the brightening dawn, the 

 song-thrush leads the chorus. No singer can surpass 

 him. Not the blackbird, for all the full melody of 

 his dulcet pipe ; he is too brief, too wild, too careless 

 altogether. Not even the skylark, for all the floods of 

 delicious music that from his hover in the quiet sky 

 he pours down upon the listening world. Nor can 

 the very nightingale's brief months of music rank 

 higher in our favour than the long, generous service 

 of the faithful thrush. 



He is ever a sweet musician; but at times there 

 sounds among the crowd a burst of song from one 

 more tuneful than his fellows that stays the passing 

 steps to listen, and year by year draws new lingerers 

 about his haunt. 



In a quiet corner of the wood yonder, a great singer 

 keeps his court. 



Cross the soft ground beneath the trees, where the 

 brown earth is breaking into points of green, and 

 where patches of bright moss hush the sound ot 

 passing footsteps. Follow the faint path that winds 

 among the trees, plainer now for the rich heaps turned 

 up by some restless mole; rustle among the deep 



