14 London Birds. 



any page of the writings of either that one opens, the 

 contrast forces itself into notice. The magic wand is 

 the same, but the hands that hold it are very different 

 Shakespeare touches us, and we crouch with him and 

 hear the Night-jar rattle and the Shrew Mice whistle 

 in the fern in the deer park as we hold our breath to 

 listen for the keepers ; or we stroll along the track of 

 old Aikman Street, across the unenclosed commons 

 of Buckinghamshire, and take Plovers' eggs with a 

 rollicking and not over-respectable company of players 

 on the tramp from Stratford and London ; or loll in 

 the shade and listen to the birds and bees overhead 

 in the branches of the oak trees of Grendon Wood. 

 It is fresh Nature everywhere. 



Milton takes the wand and the country changes 

 to the town. We smell the leather of dusty piles 

 of learned volumes, and stand half afraid in the 

 presence of the man who could see in the gloom to 

 report for a Parliament of Devils, and look without 

 flinching at 



" The living throne the sapphire blaze, 

 Where angels tremble as they gaze." 



But never, even before his blindness, could have had 

 an eye for a bird. 



But to return to the Nightingale's song. It is a 

 libel to call it sad. As a matter of fact, it's the exact 

 reverse. There are in it, of course, none of the blood- 

 stirring notes of war and crime to be heard in the 

 cry of the Eagle, nor does it, like the wail of the 

 seabird on the hungry shore, carry with it suggestions 

 of Robinson Crusoe adventure ; but it is peaceful, 

 self-sufficing, and perfectly happy home affections 

 and domestic joy set to music. Perhaps to some of 

 us, with boys to start in life, even the curious croak, 



