46 UNDER GREEN LEAVES 
From a grey thorn a blackbird flutes, as only a 
blackbird can ; his mate is sitting below him on her 
nest. This is bird music in perfection, for you have 
the singer in sight. There he is in full light of the 
morning sun, his jet-black plumage glistening, and 
his orange bill showing like a point of light. Stay 
awhile and listen as he sings his song ; with it you 
have the life-giving scent of the woods, the very 
essence of their living growth. 
The bird's song rises, falls, and dies away ; the 
light wanders here and there, now up, now down, on 
the boles of the moss-spangled giant beeches ; the 
young golden-green foliage quivers in the light, the 
branches wave and softly rustle, and the bird's 
glorious song breaks out again and again. 
The author of a popular lecture on ' Music and 
Morals' would have us believe that there is no 
intrinsic beauty in the song of any bird ; he pretends 
that its charm is only due to the force of association. 
When we hear a bird sing, straightway, he says, we 
picture to ourselves the bird's surroundings, and so 
are delighted with sounds which in themselves are 
not in the least musical. Nothing of the kind. In 
the matter of birds, I am convinced Mr. Haweis 
broad as his sympathies may be in other directions 
is a Philistine. 
