1 6 WITHIN AN HOUR OF LONDON TOWN. 



never thought of it, came back to me, a grey-haired 

 man as I looked at the havoc made on the fir-tops 

 by the storm. 



I cleared out of the wood, and managed to stag- 

 ger on four miles farther, until I reached shelter, 

 thoroughly exhausted, though I can stand as rough 

 work as most men. 



Perched on a topmost twig, with his breast to the 

 wind, the missel-thrush sings. There he is, swayed 

 to and fro by the high winds, as he sings his bold 

 song to his mate who is somewhere close at hand. 

 Although it blows hard, and the cold rain-drops hit 

 you smartly in the face like sleet, it is the best time 

 to listen to his song ; the rougher the wind and the 

 colder the rain, the louder he sings. 



The wind drops, the rain ceases, and the shout 

 of the storm-cock stops for a time his is a song of 

 bold defiance. In its place you hear now the song- 

 thrush, a softer singer. There he sits, about mid- 

 way up the tree, on the end of one of the outside 

 branches, singing to his mate below. She has her 

 nest in the stem of a stunted tree, about two feet 

 from the ground, close to primroses, wild irises, and 

 wood-anemones. Often have I watched her when 



