74 Idylls of the Field. 



of species, at least, there are taking more or less part 

 in the service. 



Not always is the harmony unbroken. In the inter- 

 lacing boughs of the two elms, beneath whose shade 

 we entered, a pair of missel-thrushes have built their 

 nest. And now, when a magpie, sweeping down from 

 the wood above, sails idly past to forage in the fields, 

 the two thrushes dash headlong from their cover to 

 chase the foe from their threshold. 



And all at once, with the shrieking of the angry 

 thrushes, the chatter of the astonished magpie — taken 

 for once all unaware — and the alarms of startled 

 blackbirds, the wood is in an uproar. 



The fugitive dives into a thicket ; close behind 

 him follow his pursuers. He seeks refuge in the air, 

 but they follow him still, scolding him with shrill 

 tongues, and buffeting him with their wings. Not 

 satisfied with driving the enemy from the gate, they 

 chase him far down the valley, until the sounds of 

 conflict die away in the distance, and quiet settles 

 down once more upon the peaceful wood. 



And, as if by way of contrast to these notes of 

 discord, there rises high above all other sounds the 

 song of an unseen nightingale. A moment only does 

 he sing. There are but a few bars of his rare and ex- 

 quisite melody, and he is heard no more. 



It is not the hour for him yet. But when the light 

 of sunset is drawn across the entrance of the valley, 

 when fiery clouds are red through the pine-trees on 



