12O Clear Skies and Cloudy. 



promptly do they venture from their shelters ! 

 Not a robin but is shouting now, and the gentler 

 strains, the refined expressions of sweet content, 

 such as the song-thrush knows, ring through 

 the leafy arches of old woods. Not a redstart 

 but is on the alert for venturesome flies, not a 

 greenlet but begins his song in praise of tireless 

 energy. It is a strange medley that is now 

 heard, a confusion that frets us if we have a 

 preference ; and such is always mine, when 

 above all these varied songs I hear the rose- 

 breast, whose magic song snaps sorrow's chain. 

 How few people appear to have heard this bird, 

 if we may judge from what has been written ! 

 As well say that you have heard some great 

 master when he was only tuning his violin, as 

 to claim familiarity with the rosebreast's song 

 on hearing a few high notes. A finished per- 

 formance is the bird's hymn to contemplation, 

 which the rosebreast withholds from all who 

 are not very near to it. The rambler must 

 share the shelter of the same tree, and then, it 

 may be, this marvellous musician will take him 

 into his confidence and warble strains no thrush 

 need ever hope to echo. 



