Sylvan Minstrels. 141 



hawthorn is out. From the cool depths of a tangled 

 thicket comes a soft and flute like song tender and 

 sweet, and full of melody it is 



The blackcap's breezy strain ; 

 That airily floats, in liquid notes, 

 Through the shafts of the leafy dome, 

 Where, deftly laid in the woodbine-shade, 

 Is swinging his fairy home. 



And, through the hedgerow near him, filters the 

 hurried song of the white-throat. Now, he flickers a 

 few feet into the air, singing all the while. Now, he 

 balances on a spray, -swelling his little throat with 

 music until it seems positively to glow. Now, he dis- 

 appears in the hedge, and croons a quiet melody to 

 himself so softly that you fancy him in the next field, 

 until, disturbed by the approach of footsteps, he 

 dashes from cover, with angry notes of alarm and in- 

 dignation. 



Hard by, a sober hedge-sparrow sings his modest 

 lay. He stays with us all the year. He never grows 

 discontented with the cold, or the shortness of pro- 

 visions. He is deliberate in his ditty, as a steady stay- 

 at-home might be expected to be. His is a simple 

 strain ; there are no variations in it ; but we accept it 

 thankfully, remembering the constancy of the singer. 



The skylark too, a prince of song, spreads his 

 quivering wings not only over the rich May meadows, 

 but a sunny day even in October will tempt him up 

 towards the blue heaven, in such an ecstasy, that the 



