62 . Idylls of the Field. 



Disturbed, perhaps, by her passing shadow as she 

 stole silently away, a wren, that was just now singing 

 loud and clear his perfect little melody, startles the 

 woodland with his shrill alarm. 



Close by is his dwelling — a handful of dry leaves 

 among the ivy that holds a sturdy oak in close em- 

 brace. Reassured by your stillness, however, the 

 restless little builder grows quiet again, and even 

 creeps back through the bushes to resume his work. 

 Presently, with a tuft of down in his beak, he flies up 

 to the nest, and disappears within the tiny entrance. 



From the shadows of the elms, that cluster on the 

 opposite slope, comes now and then the pleasant coo 

 of the ringdove ; more rarely still the quiet laugh of a 

 solitary woodpecker. 



And all the while, among the tree-tops, in the 

 bushes, on the ground itself, sounds the pleasant voice 

 of the busy little chiffchafT. 



Suddenly breaks in a louder song, sweeter, clearer, 

 richer still than all. It is the blackcap's mellow 

 strain, and yonder flits among the thickets the restless 

 figure of the singer. 



He is silent again, and you can trace him now only 

 by the tremor of a spray that bends beneath his 

 weight, or a rustling among the dry leaves of the 

 bramble. 



Then in the shadows unseen he sings again — 



1 Low at times and loud at times, 

 And changing like a poet's rhymes.' 



