WOODLAND PATHS 



the crow ; but his love-making voice, dear 

 me ! One of Macbeth's witches might ad- 

 dress the cauldron in the same tone. Evi- 

 dently the discomfited rival thought so too, 

 for he began to jaw in an undertone and 

 flew grumbling away, mostly on one wing. 

 I have no direct evidence, of course, but I 

 think my dead crow came to his untimely 

 end in one of these duels between rival 

 lovers, 



I was glad to leave the crows behind me 

 for once, and then in the full sunshine of 

 the later morning I chanced upon a tree 

 full of goldfinches. It was a tree full, also, 

 of most delightful music. Each bird was 

 vying with the other in a spring song that 

 was more in tune with the surroundings 

 than any ever written by Bach or Schu- 

 mann, a pure outgiving of blossoming 

 delight. 



The birds themselves have just come 

 172 



