VI 

 The Wooing of Birds 



WINTER has given place to spring, and it is 

 one of those warm, sunny days which enliven 

 the opening of the freshest season of the year. 

 Long, dark shadows are cast by trees and hedge- 

 rows, for the morning sun is not far above the 

 horizon. I am in a small wood ; through the trees 

 is seen a lake, and now and then a stretch of 

 brightest silver attracts the eye as a fish or a moor- 

 hen ruffles the surface, the sun making the ripples 

 like so many tiny mirrors. On all sides birds are 

 singing, the loudest and most persistent song coming 

 from a little brown singer perched on a fence. The 

 wren always gives out his song from a prominent 

 place, as if he was an important citizen of birdland, 

 and then he dives into the thick bushes, as if he had 

 done something of which he repented. 



The woodside trees are showing a tinge of red, 

 which gives promise of the general resurrection which 

 is about to take place. Some snowdrops have broken 

 through the leafy carpet, and as their white heads 



in 



