CLEANING-UP TIME 281 



like a dragon-fly in shape, but plodding in a 

 straight line instead of taking the strong erratic 

 course of a dragon-fly. Daintiest of all the tits 

 in their rose and black and white, though the 

 great tit and the blue tit, never far to seek, are 

 more brilliant. 



Our tiny tits are staunch to a bird when the 

 cuckoo, turtle-dove, landrail and night-jar follow 

 the sun to the south. And smaller even than the 

 tits, smallest and brightest of all the birds, is the 

 golden-crested wren, heedless of every other foe, 

 as of the cold, as he searches with microscopic care 

 a twig scarcely a yard from my face. Well, say 

 that he is not smaller, nor prettier, though more 

 regally coloured than the humble Jenny wren. 

 She, the reputed wife of the robin, flits every- 

 where, and searches not only bushes but banks 

 and rabbit holes for her tiny food, what time she 

 keeps up her shrill clock-winding, like a little old 

 lady scolding while she makes vain pursuit of 

 lost time. 



Cleaners-up all. If all the superfluous grubs, 

 weed seeds, and other eatable nuisances could be 

 collected into one heap, our avine friends would 

 perhaps finish the whole in a week. And when 

 that week was gone there would be nothing to 

 do but quietly to die of starvation. Instead of 

 that they feed the whole whiter through at 

 Nature's hopper. Every day they take all that 

 is within sight and reach. Clouds of finches and 

 yellow-hammers are upon the stubble, searching 



