THE BUNTINGS 171 



itself. When one reverts to the literature aforesaid, one recognises 

 anew how remarkable that must needs be which has produced such 

 results, but how it did (since there can be no fads or fashions in 

 ornithology) is a mystery still. 



Quot homines, tot sententice. The song of the corn-bunting is a 

 " clanking with Ts and r's combined," a " musical stuttering " a " number 

 of minute wind pipes," a "jingling chain," the " whir of a stocking- 

 loom," "flute-like," and the breaking of glass vessels, 1 even to the 

 extent of a whole fleet of them wrecked upon "a reef of gold." This 

 takes us right up to Tennyson, but one need not stop there. Only 

 proclaim it a " musical confusion," and we reach Shakespeare, which, 

 starting from a corn-bunting, is surely a striking crescendo. Coming 

 down again, as I myself conceive the matter, the bird, having uttered, 

 with increasing speed, and what seems a resolute purpose, his little 

 gamut of preluding notes, be they what they will, appears to lose 

 himself, and after tumbling out sounds in which an uneasy conscious- 

 ness of what is due to the various similitudes that have been heaped 

 upon them, detracts, very noticeably, from the value of any, stops 

 suddenly, as though he gave it up. In the space of a minute or so 

 he makes another attempt, gets involved in the same difficulties, 

 stops again, again recommences, stops, starts once more, and con- 

 tinues to try, at short intervals, till, at last, and, as one might think, in 

 despair, he flies from his perch. This is very commonly a telegraph- 

 wire, but a high hedge, if there be one, will serve, and here, perhaps, 

 or hereabouts, he may come once more into competition with his old 

 rival, the yellow-hammer (E. citrinella), whose funny though enjoyable 

 little " tsee, tsee, tsee, tsee, tsee, tsee, tsee, tsee, tseeng " is much in evidence at 

 the same season. Which of these performances bears the bell is, like 

 many other grave matters, a matter of taste, but this, at least, may be 

 said in favour of Citrinella, that he is neither hesitating nor obscure. 



1 Also the crushing and grinding of innumerable splinters of glass. Perhaps it is like what 

 this is in the imagination of those who catch the resemblance, but, having broken glass, and 

 crushed it, on purpose, I confess I could make nothing of it. There was no corn-bunting in the 

 sound. 



