All among the Barley. 87 



From the old gate yonder we can watch unseen. 

 A bullfinch flashes out of the hedge as steps approach, 

 and flies a little way down the lane, uttering at intervals 

 his soft low notes. He is a handsome bird, with his 

 glossy black crown, his dark slate-coloured back, and 

 the exquisite flush of rose upon his breast. But for 

 mischief there are few to match him. A party of bull- 

 finches, united in a league of evil, will strip the buds 

 from your favourite cherry before you are down in the 

 morning ; not, as might be thought, because they are 

 attacked by insects ; not even stopping to eat them, 

 but scattering them in hundreds wantonly on the 

 ground. 



From an old elm overhead sounds the flute-like 

 twitter of a nuthatch ; and next moment he appears 

 coming down the stem head foremost, hammering 

 now and then in likely places with a noise it seems 

 impossible so small a bird could make, in the hope of 

 turning up some juicy larva for his dinner. 



Listen a moment to that faint note in the next tree, 

 like the feeble cry of a young bird. It is the creeper, 

 another climbing bird ; less dextrous indeed than his 

 neighbour, but with charming ways. Unlike the nut- 

 hatch, he cannot climb down the trunk, but, having 

 begun at the bottom and pursued his journey to the 

 topmost branches, pausing here and there on the way 

 to examine the crannies of the rugged bark with his 

 long curved bill, he flies off to the foot of another tree, 

 and begins again. 



