AUTUMN 69 



over them. Yes, a Lincoln finch ! He was 

 out of sight almost before I saw him, how- 

 ever, and after a bit of feverish waiting I 

 squeaked. He did not come up to look at 

 me, as I hoped he would do, but the sudden 

 noise startled him, and he moved slightly, 

 enough so that my eye again found him. 

 This time, also, I saw his head and his 

 breast, and then he was lost again. Again 

 I waited. Then I squeaked, waited, and 

 squeaked again, louder and longer than be- 

 fore. No answer, and no sign of movement. 

 You might have sworn there was no bird 

 there ; and perhaps you would not have per- 

 jured yourself ; for presently I stepped up 

 to the brush-heap and trampled it over, and 

 still there was no sign of life. Above the 

 brush was a low stone wall, and beyond that 

 a bare ploughed field. How the fellow had 

 slipped away there was no telling. And 

 that was the end of the story. But I had 

 seen him, and he was a Lincoln finch. It 

 was a shabby interview he had granted me, 

 after keeping me waiting for almost twenty 

 years ; but then, I repeated for my comfort, 

 I had seen him. 



