46 THE HOME OF THE WILLOW-WREN 



might be hiding, he would ruffle his feathers 

 and arch his neck in order to inspect his downy 

 breast. His most humorous attitude was struck 

 when he held his head erect, so that his beak 

 resembled a thorn stuck in a bunch of feathers, 

 while he gazed at the sky, or perhaps at a leaf 

 where a fly might be seen as a dark shadow 

 in a setting of semi-transparent green. But 

 his song seemed to belie the fun and frolic 

 so easily conjectured from his artless demeanour ; 

 the low, sweet phrase betokened some exquisite 

 sentiment beyond description, but which I 

 almost believed that sympathy enabled me to 

 understand. 



Frequently I have been struck by this pecu- 

 liarity in the song of a bird that it indicates 

 more than a mere exuberance of joy, more 

 than the one simple emotion evident in a 

 melodious call-note, and more than mere wonder, 

 anger, expostulation in the harsh, unmusical 

 note of alarm. This point may be illustrated by 

 the song of the skylark. While the lark soars, 

 circling, into the sky, his carol is a loud, bubbling 

 trill, instinct with vigorous health, free move- 

 ment, and utter delight an evident challenge 

 to sorrow and pain. The phrasing lengthens 

 when he attains the zenith of his flight, and as 

 the bird descends his song changes and becomes 

 plaintive, pleading, questioning, till, as he drops 



