THE SONG. 2-11 



But autumn has arrived. While the lark gathers behind the plough 

 the harvest of insects, the guests of the northern countries come to 

 visit us : the thrash, punctual to our vintage-time ; and, haughty 

 under his crown, the wren, the imperceptible " King of the North." 

 From Norway, at the season of fogs, he comes, and, under a gigantic 

 fir-tree, the little magician sings his mysterious song, until the extreme 

 cold constrains him to descend, to mingle, and make himself popular 

 among the little troglodytes which dwell with us, and charm our cot- 

 tages by their limpid notes. 



The season grows rough ; all the birds draw nearer man. The 

 honest bullfinches, fond and faithful couples, come, with a short 

 melancholy chirp, to solicit help. The winter-warbler also quits his 

 bushes ; timid as he is, he grows sufficiently bold towards evening to 

 raise outside our doors his trembling voice with its monotonous, 

 plaintive accents. 



" When, in the first mists of October, shortly before winter, the 

 poor proletarian seeks in the forest his pitiful provision of dead wood, 

 a small bird approaches him, attracted by the noise of his axe ; he 

 hovers around him, and taxes his wits to amuse him by singing in 

 a very low voice his softest lays. It is the robin redbreast, which a 

 charitable fairy has despatched to tell the solitary labourer that there 

 is still some one in nature interested in him. 



" When the woodcutter has collected the brands of the preceding 

 day, reduced to cinders; when the chips and the dry branches crackle 

 in the flames, the robin hastens singing to enjoy his share of the 

 warmth, and to participate in the woodcutter's happiness. 



' When Nature retires to slumber, and folds herself in her mantle 

 of snow ; when one hears no other voices than those of the birds of 

 the North, which define in the air their rapid triangles, or that of the 

 north wind, which roars and engulfs itself in the thatched roof of the 

 cottages, a tiny flute-like song, modulated in softest notes, protests 

 still, in the name of creative work, against the universal weakness, 

 lamentation, and lethargy." 



Open your windows, for pity's sake, and give him a few crumbs, 

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