CHAPTER V. 



Bird Music The Skylark's Song Imitation of, by a French Poet Alasdair Macdonald 



Scott. 



CONSCIOUS at last that pouting and inordinate weeping became him 

 not, and that, being constantly on the "rampage," like Mrs. Joe 

 Gargery, was hardly consistent with his place in the calendar, April 

 [1869] betimes resolved to "tak a thocht and mend," and now, like 

 Richard, is himself again all sunshine and smiles. The rain- 

 gauge, to be sure, with stern impartiality, will still show an 

 occasional " inch," or parts of an inch, if you are very particular 

 in your inquiries, when examined of a morning, but its readings 

 now at least are in no way appalling, for they represent the warm 

 and genial rainfall of April showers, that, after all, are as necessary 

 on the west coast at this moment, and as refreshing to the soil, 

 as the orthodox cup of mulled port of an evening was believed to 

 be to the weary traveller in the good old days of stage-coaches and 

 post-chaises. The country, at all events, is looking very beautiful 

 just now, everything so green and glad, so fresh and fair, and 

 full of promise of a yet gladder, and gayer, and brighter day at 

 hand, when the swallow, twittering, shall dart, a glossy meteor, 

 in the sunlight, and the cuckoo shall challenge the truant school- 

 boy to repeat its well-known notes, correctly if he can. Now is 

 the time to hear our native song-birds at their best, warbling their 

 sweetest strains, and to decide, once for all, if it be possible, which 

 yyu like best; the loud, clear, silvery tinkle of the seed-shelling 

 finch's rich and rapid song ; the liquid and mellifluous warblings of 

 the soft-billed tribes ; or the soul-entrancing, round, rich, flute-like 



