VOICES OF BIRDS. 115 



the channel, reminds our human sympathies that our 

 fellow-man, with all his hopes, and fears, and cares, 

 and toils, is there. The winds are sighing round us, 

 and whispering in these quivering hazel-leaves ; and 

 many voices are behind us in the copse sweet voices 

 of sweet birds I How richly mellow the low notes of 

 that blackbird, who has been pouring forth a broken 

 melody for the last ten minutes, as if unconscious 

 that any one heard and admired ! and here, close at 

 my elbow, a tiny rogue of a wren perches himself on 

 a twig, and with tail more than erect delivers himself 

 of such a rapid effusion, that one can scarcely help 

 laughing. There is the sweet call of the cuckoo again 

 cuckoo ! cuckoo ! How I love to hear that voice ; 

 I stand still to listen, and drink in the notes, as if 

 they were the very quintessence of summer. 



That principle of curiosity that prompts one always 

 to penetrate as far as possible, and to see all that may 

 be seen, won't let me sit here enjoying this quiet 

 scene, lovely as it is. I must needs climb those 

 heights, and see what that elevation reveals. The 

 little lane (I ought to have said that a bank and hedge, 

 bounding the foot of the shrubby hill-side, make its 

 bottom a lane) presently opens into a pasture-field, 

 steep enough for a pugilist's fasting walk. The edge 

 of the copse that bounds it is blue with the thick 

 spikes of bugle; and here at the lower parts whole 

 patches are radiant with the pimpernel. Except the 

 corn poppy, this is said to be the only scarlet flower 

 we have ; and, in truth, it is a little gem, with its 



