S2 FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



in finally chasing away the lingering night, many sweet 

 answering notes are poured from budding boughs, staying 

 throughout the long bright day, only ending when the 

 twilight has deepened. Before long, the day-birds' finished 

 strains will be taken up by the nightingale, making day and 

 night one unbroken round of melody. 



Do they not sing in pure thankfulness for the enjoyment 

 of life ? At all times of the year in this direction, with their 

 feeble twitterings or perfectly executed songs, they are wont 

 to charm us ; the thrush, the hedge-sparrow, and the wren 

 sing more or less every month ; the yellow-hammer sings as 

 long as summer lasts ; and the robin, everybody's friend, 

 silent all through the time of roses, sings when autumn mists 

 are abroad, and winter were hardly winter were he absent, 

 his bright breast gleaming like a crimson rose among the 

 lily-lustre of the snow. 



Is anything more marvellous than their songs coming 

 untaught and unwritten from their throats, songs that are 

 never forgotten, handed down from brood to brood, never less 

 in beauty of rhythm, each new fledgeling bringing its certain 

 repertoire with it, when it emerges from its speckled shell, and 

 whose song is to help swell the grand chorus which goes to- 

 wards making the seasons so enjoyable, each fragile note on 

 blossoming bough, each lark rising jubilant skyward, each 

 jolly chaffinch in bush and brake, each warbler of reed and 

 rail, making one harmonious chord. 



Who, again, can help admiring the construction of their 

 homes, each built in its ordained place, the swallow's above 

 the lattice beneath the sheltering eaves, the robin's in the 

 ivied bank, the wren's in the low bush, the rook's situated 



