The Gift of Song. 97 



Too often, indeed, his speech is of the pit, and savours 

 of the nether world — not altogether out of harmony 

 with his plumes of sable. 



Birds of Paradise, no doubt, have equal powers of 

 utterance ; were they caught and trained, their language 

 would surely be more in keeping with their bright 

 attire. 



The chatter of the jackdaw as, when work is over, 

 he wings his way homeward to his rest among the 

 ruins, has something almost of music in its sound. 



Through the hours of daylight, toiling for his brood, 

 the daw has time for little interchange of speech beyond 

 brief monosyllabic greetings as his neighbours pass. 

 But you will hear him better when the shadows gather 

 in the valley, when the light of sunset lingers on the 

 tracery of the great abbey window, and streams in 

 glory down the roofless nave. 



From the quiet lane that winds upward from the 

 river you look back to watch the cloud of daws drifting 

 homeward from the hill. 



Faintly sound their voices in the distance, growing 

 clearer now, as, nearer still and nearer, float their dark 

 figures on the saffron sky. Now they pause above the 

 ruin, with a mingled chorus from a hundred throats. 

 Now they wheel above the ancient gables, now they 

 flutter down and vanish in unnumbered niches ; or, 

 alighting in dark clusters on some favourite point, 

 they gossip with their neighbours before turning in. 



The light fades slowly from the ivied walls. The 



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