A Rising Generation. 39 



its summer dress ; who leave us ere earth puts off her 

 jewels one by one, before the last roses wither, and 

 while the woodbine still scents the country lane. Well 

 for those whose family traditions prompt them thus to 

 forsake our misty island for a brighter sky, and to stay 

 beyond the sea, until the sun once more stirs the 

 pulses of the slumbering land ! 



The nests on which so much skill and labour were 

 expended are in use no longer. The green hammock 

 of moss, which far back in the month of May, the gold- 

 crest slung under a swaying branch of her favourite 

 fir-tree, is empty now. The eight small eggs smaller 

 even than those of some humming birds -have long 

 been hatched ; and the tumultuous crowd of fledglings, 

 who wear no mark of sovereignty yet, no touch of gold 

 upon their tiny heads, have left the nursery for ever. 



Troops of tits, emerging from unsuspected chinks in 

 walls and trees, are playing all day long at follow the 

 leader in the woods and orchards. 



The tits are clever builders, all of them, and few 

 birds choose such unlikely spots to build in. 



The blue-tit makes his nest in a hole -often with an 

 entrance so narrow that it will barely admit the 

 finger. But sometimes the spout of a disused pump 

 will take his fancy, or an empty bottle hung in a tree 

 to drain. Now he hides his handful of moss and hair 

 in the pocket of the very scarecrow, whose outstretched 

 arms and fluttering vesture rouse no terror in his fear- 

 less soul. 



