The Gift of Song. 93 



The anthem of the thrush, indeed, to which with 

 eager ears we listened even in the dark days of 

 January, is sounding for us still. The whistle of the 

 blackbird, that gathered strength in the bright days of 

 April, and reached its prime in the splendour of a 

 perfect May, in woodland walks and garden alleys, 

 echoes still. Still the chaffinch sings, and the wren. 

 Still the blackcap makes sweet music in the green 

 aisles of the wood. 



But we hear no more the white-throat and the 

 willow-wren, the redstart, and all the inconstant 

 troubadours who came to us from the warm south. 



The nightingale is silent altogether. The general 

 verdict ranks him first of all the tuneful train. And 

 when his heart is in his singing there is none to 

 match him of all sweet minstrels of the wood or field. 



But he is a wilful singer. Many a night he holds 

 his peace altogether, or sings a few brief bars, and 

 then is silent. And there is always for him the charm 

 of the hour, the glamour of ' serene and quiet nights 

 when all the heavens are fair.' 



We pass, by the well-remembered gate, into the 

 shadows of the wood. The path that winds through 

 the thickets is hardly seen under its canopy of hazel 

 and of briar. The trees are still. There is no sound 

 but the low murmur of some distant owl, or the faint 

 rustlings of night-wandering creatures on the withered 

 leaves. 



Suddenly, out of the darkness close at hand, there 



