THROUGH THE YEAR 231 



and through the immense series of cog-wheels. He 

 has drawn me a little sketch of the wings of the wind- 

 hover or kestrel hanging in space " The hawk in 

 libration : anchored/' The tips of the wings bite 

 into the cogs of the revolving wheel, constantly as 

 it turns, changing from one tooth to another. It is 

 an ingenious idea, and curious, whether or not it 

 persuades us. Any theory of a careful watcher is 

 of use if it calls attention to the effects of the wind 

 on these light, fine particles of matter. 



SONG AND SAP 



A few minutes before seven in the April evening, 

 nearer dark than dusk, the blackbirds were singing 

 as earnestly as the thrushes, and for half an hour 

 there was one of those bird babels peculiar to soft 

 and moist rather than brilliant weather in April and 

 the last fortnight of March. At sundown the sky 

 presents none of those ethereal after-glows pure, 

 faint washes of yellow and lustrous blue which 

 we look for at the zenith of summer. The western 

 horizon is rather cloudy, and but for a strip of cirro- 

 stratus here and there, flushed with purple or pink, 

 the scene would be a monochrome. Then every 

 thrush and redbreast in the shrubberies, parks, and 

 plantations around us throws himself into song, and 

 sometimes the more fastidious blackbirds are drawn 

 in. The result is not altogether happy if we wish to 

 catch the notes of each of these three singers at their 

 best ; there is too much confusion, a tangle, a jangle 

 of melodies. But the thing means Spring. It is 



