When Woods are Bare. 181 



from bush to bush across the underwood. Their 

 skirmishers search among the few last leaves that 

 linger in the tree-tops ; they investigate every crevice 

 of the rustling ground. They keep up a continual 

 chatter as they go ; their fluffy little round bodies and 

 strangely long tails singling them out plainly enough 

 from the rest of the busy company. They are every- 

 where at once. The wood is alive with them. And 

 all the while there swing from swaying boughs or 

 rocking pine-tops the other members of the clan the 

 great tit, with his bold and brilliant colouring; the 

 blue tit, with his smart blue bonnet; the marsh tit, 

 and the coal tit, with their neat and quiet tints. 



They are a merry crew, gifted with blithe and 

 musical voices. And among them all the great tit, in 

 particular, is the lyric poet of the spring. In the early 

 days of January his clear sonorous call rises above the 

 shrill treble of the robin, and the stammering pipe of 

 the yet unpractised song-thrush. And in the sweet 

 sunshine of happy April days his voice chimes in like 

 the lilt of a swinging chorus, when, with music from a 

 hundred throats, 



The quivering air thrills everywhere 

 One rippling sea of song. 



