The Postern Gate, 73 



are near us still, and at times you may hear above 

 the rich music of the thrush, and in the pauses of 

 the robin's song, their bursts of laughter ringing clear 

 and loud. 



Over the hedge that skirts the lower border of the 

 wood are visible the straggling apple-trees of a neg- 

 lected orchard. Among the grey boughs a redstart 

 utters now and then his unstudied little song. You 

 may even catch the sudden flicker of red as the 

 bright little bird leaps lightly down to the grass 

 beneath him. 



In another tree, standing rather apart from the rest, 

 a nuthatch wanders up and down, calling to some 

 companion — his mate, perhaps — who answers from 

 one of the sturdy oaks across the valley. 



Let us cross the strip of ploughed land to the 

 orchard, where the bright grass is brighter still with 

 cuckoo-flower and cowslip, and look at the tree. 



A nuthatch flies out, and taking refuge in the pollard- 

 ash hard by, watches anxiously our movements. 



Here is the hole. The birds have found the open- 

 ing too large to suit them, and have been plastering it 

 up with mud. The little masons have laid on a coat- 

 ing more than an inch thick already, and the well- 

 tempered surface is dinted all over with the marks of 

 their sharp bills. 



The nest itself is hardly begun yet — merely a hand- 

 ful of dry leaves about a foot below the entrance. 



How the birds are singing in the wood ! A score 



