CAMEOS OF WILD LIFE. 65 



bushes yonder ; but I suppose the rascal has a nest full 

 of hungry young ones. He might have spared my 

 Whitethroat though, and I feel as if I don't want to see 

 him again for a week. It is surprising what little things 

 annoy and irritate us sometimes. I feel out of sorts 

 with Nature for the rest of the evening. Not even the 

 Goatsuckers can pacify me, even though they sit on the 

 top bar of the gate and feed each other almost within 

 reach of my hand ; and the sight of a big gray Heron 

 slowly flapping away over the woods to his distant 

 colony is not enough to appease my wounded feelings. 

 Poor little Whitethroat ! The rapture of seeing those 

 tiny speckled egg-shells burst asunder one by one as 

 their living freight of blind and helpless chicks came 

 forth ; the joy at hearing their first faint notes of 

 recognition and welcome ; the pleasure of watching those 

 tender young ones, and bringing them to maturity ; the 

 delight of teaching them to fly, of shielding them from 

 harm, and at last of proudly taking them away in 

 autumn on their first long pilgrimage to warmer lands 

 beyond the sea, can never now be your happy portion ! 

 Your widowed mate is desolate, and the hedges will be 

 made glad with your garrulous song no more ! One 

 tiny drop of blood upon the rose-leaves tells a tale of 

 death ! I go home pondering over the " survival of the 

 fittest," the " balance of Nature," the " struggle for life," 

 all stern justice perhaps, but tempered with no mercy. 



F 



