SLSSPT HOLLOW 45 



Not all are quiet. A pipit, resting on the topmost 

 bough of an old walnut-tree, suddenly rises in the air 

 above his perch; and then, pausing a moment, spreads 

 wide his wings and tail, and, singing all the while, floats 

 downward like a falling leaf till he gains once more his 

 station on the tree. His nest is on the ground perhaps 

 in the hoof mark some horse has stamped into the turf 

 and his mate, brooding patiently over her dark-brown 

 eggs, is listening at this moment, no doubt, to the song 

 with which he seeks to relieve the tedium of her vigil. 



Along the green hawthorn hedge a pair of restless 

 whitethroats are flitting. Now they chatter softly to 

 each other in the cool depths of their covert. Now one 

 of them, balanced on a bramble spray, swells with song 

 that slender little throat of his with a rapid burst of 

 melody, until it shows as clear a patch of white against 

 the hedge as the blossoms of the wayfaring tree farther 

 on. The song grows faster and faster, until it seems a 

 marvel how'such rapid utterance is possible at all. Now 

 the little minstrel soars a few feet into the air, warbling 

 all the while, and then dives back into his covert, 

 singing still. Now his voice softens and sinks lower, 

 lower yet, till it is hardly heard, as if he were whispering 

 soft strains of love in the ear of his more silent mate, 

 after proving as he has to all the world his right of 

 fellowship with singers of renown. Then he breaks off 

 suddenly with a harsh "churr, churr" of anger or 

 suspicion. The nest of the little couple is not ready 

 yet. It is a frail structure enough ; a little dry grass 

 with a lining of hair, built among the brambles or 



