A New Face at the Door. 151 



where, to their feast of acorns, the ringdoves came 

 down, ere a soul was stirring in the village. 



Among the old orchard-trees over the hedge there 

 sounds the chiff-chaff's cheery note. Almost the last 

 he is to leave us of all the throng that crossed the seas 

 for a brief summer in the north. 



The swallow too still lingers. In a cartshed at the 

 farm below, there is even a nestful of youngsters that 

 have not yet proved the wings that ere long must bear 

 them far to southward, across the burning sands of the 

 Sahara. 



From the topmost branches of the oak comes the 

 musical call of a nuthatch, and now and then the 

 sharp tapping of his bill against the rugged bark. 



Birds are very silent now. Only the robin sings. 

 Among all the minstrels of the spring-time, we are apt 

 to pass him over. But our ingratitude makes no 

 difference to him ; there is no note of murmuring to 

 mar the beauty of his music. 



Other singers come and go ; we listen for a brief 

 space to their sweet melodies, and then, as the days 

 grow longer, we miss them one by one. But the 

 robin's cheerful strain is sweeter now and clearer than 

 when, in the chill March weather, he sang to cheer his 

 mate. All day long he charms our listening ears. 

 One sweet singer haunts the gable of the barn ; 

 another loves the topmost rung of the tall ladder in 

 the stackyard, where, upon the yellow thatch, the 

 silent finches gather in a busy crowd. 



