98 SONG OF THE REDSTART. 



The experience of this naturalist does not bear out the 

 statement of Willoughby, who says, ' This is the shyest of 

 all birds, for if she perceives you to mind her when she is 

 building, she will forsake what she has begun, and if you 

 touch an egg, she never comes to her nest more ; and if 

 you touch her young ones, she will either starve them or 

 throw them out of the nest and break their necks ; ' and 

 both Mudie and Stanley agree with him in asserting that 

 this bird is not so easily induced to forsake her nest as is 

 here represented. 



Wood agrees with Bechstein and Sweet in stating this to 

 be a very difficult bird to keep long in a state of captivity : 

 i With great care,' he says, i it may be preserved three 

 or four years, but it seldom repays this trouble, always 

 remaining sullen, and singing but little.' This, however, 

 is not always the case, as instances are cited in which the 

 birds became remarkably tame and familiar, and quite 

 happy and content with their lot ; singing, in one case, both 

 in the day and night time, and nearly the whole year 

 throughout. White says, l The song of the Redstart is 

 superior, though somewhat like that of the Whitethroat ; 

 some birds have a few more notes than others. Sitting very 

 placidly on the top of a tall tree in a village, the cock sings 

 from morning to night : he affects neighbourhoods and 

 avoids solitude, and loves to build in orchards and about 

 houses ; ' so that, we see, he also is one of the familiar 

 friends of man. 



The lively Eedstart strains his little throat 



Perch' d on an orchard tree throughout the day; 

 When downy seeds upon the breezes float, 



And wither' d leaves begin to strew the way ; 



And although bright the sunny beams that play 

 Upon the landscape, yet all things denote 



The glory of the year hath passed away : 

 And there he warbles out his farewell note. 

 Soon will his desultory song be heard 



In climes more bright and balmier than ours , 

 The cold, ungenial north suits not this bird, 



And so he journeys to a land where bowers 

 Are ever green ; to visit us again 

 When the sweet smile of April lights the plain. 



