A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 85 



don't you think if I sowed my front garden all over 

 with quite common nasturtiums, it would look very 

 nice, and save ever so much trouble ? " 



It would, undoubtedly ; so we discussed that and 

 other plans for adorning Mrs. Kitty's demesne ; till 

 the children came back from the farmyard and were 

 shepherded homewards by the ladies, calling shrill 

 good-nights from the turning in the lane which we 

 call Good-bye Corner. After they had gone, I strolled 

 round the walks in the glow of the quiet evening 

 with young French. We listened to the blackbirds, 

 to the starlings congregated at vespers in the great 

 apple-tree, a score of them facing the sunset, getting 

 out their music, their bubblings, hissings, clicks, and 

 whistles, with mighty energy of wing-flappings and 

 head-bobbings. Gervase thinks they are conscious 

 humourists ; that just now they are burlesquing the 

 spring fervour of nightingales and thrushes and such 

 poetic hearts. If not, he holds their intense ungainly 

 earnestness as almost pathetic. Down in the copse 

 below the meadows a blackbird and a thrush are 

 singing amcebean strains, the rich legato warble of 

 the golden mouth against the clear vivace call of the 

 speckled breast. Then, as will happen, we tire for 

 the sound of our own tongues, and leave the sundown 

 wood-chorus for a rambling talk. Gervase, an old 



