98 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



honeysuckle, the roof arched to her back and the floor 

 shaped to fit the long hind-legs that shot her into 

 safety. 



The beauties of our hanger are unusually contem- 

 poraneous this year. The blackthorn hedge that 

 guards it is a foam of blossoms, as it should have been 

 a month ago. Who has ever seen blackthorn before 

 companioned by bluebells, and opening its buds to the 

 full glory of the primroses ? And there goes a bird 

 with the blackness of winter blackthorn and the white- 

 ness of its spring blossoms. Its long- winged hawking 

 flight proclaims it to any one a flycatcher. We cannot 

 retain such a beauty as the pied flycatcher in our 

 southern wood. It must fare on to one of its restricted 

 haunts, probably as far north as Cumberland. It is 

 all the dearer in our Sussex hanger because its visit 

 is, like the blackthorn blossom, so transient. Then, as 

 we pass through the fairy birches, with their net-like 

 cascades spangled with tiniest green, a puff-throated, 

 black-headed bird flies out, and, perching craningly 

 close to our path, pours out a piping, rattling run of 

 music, the sole song of its repertory, that throws any 

 of the nightingale's hundred fancies into the shade. 

 It is, of course, Ireland's nightingale, the blackcap ; 

 here to stay the summer, for our hanger is blessed as 

 the nesting-place of these two princes of song. 



