74 A YEAR WITH NATURE. 



arrived amongst us. Was ever anything more beautiful than 

 their yellow breasts and the fresh green meadows? 



It is curious the birds we see in these situations; the little 

 Coal Tit and Long Tailed Tit, the former being much noisier 

 than the latter; our old friend the Chaffinch in a fearful state 

 of excitement ; the cheery Hedge Sparrow and a flock of noisy 

 Rooks. From the coppice, not a hundred yards away, we hear 

 the notes of the Green Woodpecker, and the " chiff-chaff, chiff- 

 chaff," of the bird of that name and, as we stand listening, a 

 House Martin flits by uttering its pretty little warble. The 

 Martin is by no means a bad singer. More nests in the bushes 

 as we ramble on, and we notice in at least half a dozen 

 Blackbirds' nests one egg broken. Apparently, no boy plunderers 

 have been at the nests. How then were the eggs broken? 



Two or three moss and lichen cups are almost ready for 

 eggs, and we are disappointed not to find any blue shells 

 in the Hedge Sparrow's domicile; we are early yet, April 

 is not yet out on the day of our ramble. We have taken 

 with a grain of salt those early Cuckoo and Nightingale records, 

 but at this moment we hear "jug-jug" from the thick coppice, 

 which comes down almost to the water's edge. The Nightingale 

 is here now in person. He only utters a few notes, but they 

 are too well-known to be mistaken, and the mimicking Sedge 

 and Reed Warblers are not yet here. 



Flitting along from bush to bush in front of us, the Lesser 

 Whitethroat is seen. I often find its nest in a bush by some 

 quiet stream. Suddenly, from its favourite tree, the Tree Pipit 

 really does appear. Up aloft he goes, and having reached a 

 certain altitude, down he comes in a slanting direction with 

 open but motionless wings, singing all the while. Not always 

 does this glorious songster descend to the perch from which 

 he started, as some writers assert, for on this occasion he 

 started from his tree perch and alighted straight on the ground. 

 Standing underneath the tree, we have a fine view of his speckled 

 breast. He sings, too, whilst perching, but the notes are more 

 subdued, and of not such a rapturous description as when he 

 is suspended in the air. 



Still bubbling on goes the stream, rushing and caressing, though 

 the rains of the last few days have not made much appreciable 



