OLD HEDGEROWS. 73 



That butterfly-like bird, the wood-warbler, sings 

 a half-hearted little song as he flutters over the tops 

 of the beech twigs : he knows that he has come a 

 long way to sing it, and that he has to go back 

 again ; and his notes seem to tell you that the 

 sooner it is all over the better he will like it. Then 

 suddenly you hear chipped out, " chiff, chiff, chiff, 

 cheff!" to any extent; and when that stops, the 

 faint mouse-like chirp, or tweet, of the golden-crested 

 wren comes from the firs. 



Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap ! that is the green wood- 

 pecker "shinning" round and up the dead limbs 

 of one of the old beeches. Then for a time all is 

 still : you can see by their gentle flickerings that a 

 faint air up aloft is gently moving the tender, bright, 

 yellow, green leaves of the top shoots of the beeches, 

 but not enough to make a rustle. The scent from 

 the firs and junipers, mingled with wild roses and 

 clumps of mignonette, which grows here in profu- 

 sion, appears to float to and fro ; one's lungs are filled 

 with the life-giving air of the woodlands ; then a 

 bird sings, a loud, full, liquid song, as distinct from 

 that of any other bird as day is from night. The 

 place is filled with it. No matter where or when 



