OUR THRUSHES. 93 



a bold bird, and he looks it ; we hear him loudly 

 singing in the storm, and when all other birds, the 

 robin excepted, are silent. 



The rain falls in torrents, the wind blows as early 

 March winds do blow at times, bunching up the 

 clouds in mountain-like heaps which sail slowly 

 along, being far too heavy to move quickly. Hail 

 rattles down also, but there is a short lull after 

 a time, and a small piece of blue shows in the 

 sky, about the size of a child's pinafore. It is 

 enough to start our storm-cock. The wind is still 

 blowing a gale ; nature's own organ pealing through 

 the woods. That suits our bird well ; he dashes 

 out from his cover and up on to the highest twig 

 of that old ash ; grasping it with his strong feet, 

 he swings to and fro in the rushing wind, and sings 

 as he sways. It stirs one's blood to hear his wild 

 clarion notes, now high, now low, and again almost 

 shrieking in wild glee as he tosses and swings. The 

 road may be very wet and slushy, and the wind may 

 send a drenching shower of drops over you as it 

 stirs the twigs and branches of the trees under 

 which you walk, but who cares for that when 

 watching that brave bird, and listening to his joy- 



