viii BIRDS 



One does not live perhaps to grow more interested 

 in birds than one began by being, for one began 

 with a deep curious interest in them. But one does 

 go on learning fresh things about them every year ; 

 rinding new and very charming little facts about 

 their songs, nests, change of plumage, emotions, 

 language and wonderful way through the air. There 

 seems no end to the study except that terrible one 

 of time's flight, and the end of ourselves pressing 

 in upon us 



" The bird of time has but a little way to fly, 

 And lo 1 the bird is on the wing." 



This chronicle of wild birds has been kept in many 

 places incidentally in Sicily, in the Apennines and 

 in the Atlas Mountains, as well as in England. It 

 partly springs out of a sort of diary of birds which, 

 for several years running, I kept in the village of 

 Church or East Oakley, by permission of the indul- 

 gent " Standard " and its readers. That was a very 

 pleasant occupation ; it caused me to spend long 

 portions of many spring and summer days wandering 

 about the country. Those are among the days when 

 we do not merely exist we live ; days at the close 

 of which we may even say with Cowley, 



" To-morrow let my sun his beams display 

 Or in clouds hide them I have lived to-day." 



