52 WITHIN AN HOUR OF LONDON TOWN. 



have not noticed them closely. If they were not 

 such common birds they would be highly prized 

 on account of their beauty and their aptness in 

 acquiring various accomplishments. No British 

 bird, not even the kingfisher, surpasses in its 

 plumage the metallic beauty of a cock starling at 

 his best. He is a glorious fellow, as he puffs out 

 the feathers of his throat, drops his fluttering wings, 

 and sings a love-song to his mate. His yellow bill is 

 almost as bright as a blackbird's. A mimic of the 

 first order, too, he is. 



For several consecutive years a pair of starlings 

 built in a corner of a room, in one of my homes. 

 It was wonderful to hear the fine fellow sing to his 

 mate in that corner, unheeding me, as I often sat 

 quite near, busy at my easel. Apart from his own 

 melodious whistling, he would run over parts of the 

 songs of other birds for her delight, giving now some 

 of the flute-like notes of the blackbird, as he sings 

 in the spring evenings after a shower, just before 

 the sun sinks low; and then again two or three 

 notes of the storm-cock or missel-thrush would ring 

 out, just as they come from his throat as he sits on 

 the top twig of some wind-tossed tree, shouting in 



