46 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



in the still pool (as it were) under it. Next a corner, 

 more oaks, and a chestnut in bloom. Returning to 

 this spot an old apple tree stands right out in the 

 meadow like an island. There seemed just now the 

 tiniest twinkle of movement by the rushes, but it was 

 lost among the hedge parsley. Among the grey leaves 

 of the willow there is another flit of motion ; and 

 visible now against the sky there is a little brown 

 bird, not to be distinguished at the moment from the 

 many other little brown birds that are known to be 

 about. He got up into the willow from the hedge 

 parsley somehow, without being seen to climb or fly. 

 Suddenly he crosses to the tops of the hawthorn and 

 immediately flings himself up into the air a yard or 

 two, his wings and rufiled crest making a ragged out- 

 line; jerk, jerk, jerk, as if it were with the utmost 

 difficulty he could keep even at that height. He scolds, 

 and twitters, and chirps, and all at once sinks like a 

 stone into the hedge and out of sight as a stone into 

 a pond. It is a whitethroat ; his nest is deep in the 

 parsley and nettles. Presently he will go out to the 

 island apple tree and back again in a minute or two ; 

 the pair of them are so fond of each other's affectionate 

 company they cannot remain apart. 



Watching the line of the hedge, about every two 

 minutes, either near at hand or yonder a bird darts 

 out just at the level of the grass, hovers a second with 

 labouring wings, and returns as swiftly to the cover. 

 Sometimes it is a flycatcher, sometimes a greenfinch, 

 or chaffinch, now and then a robin, in one place a 

 shrike, perhaps another is a redstart. They are fly- 

 fishing all of them, seizing insects from the sorrel tips 



