no More Tales of the Birds 



rambles in the autumn. And the next thing I 

 recollect is the prickles of the gorse-bush in 

 which our nest was hidden, and the splendid 

 yellow bloom, and the strong sweet scent it gave 

 to the air. We were always being fed by our 

 parents, but I needn't trouble you with that." 



"No," said the Canary, " but I'm glad you were 

 fed well, all the same : it's the main thing for 

 song and satisfaction. Well, go on ; this is all 

 dreadfully provincial, but one must make allow- 

 ance, as the dealer said." 



" When we grew big enough we all five got 

 up to the edge of the nest one by one, and our 

 mother teased us to come out through the green 

 prickles the same way that she came in and out 

 to feed us. One by one we fluttered out, and 

 perched on a bare hawthorn twig close by. 

 Never shall I forget that moment ! The .world 

 was all open to us, a world of rolling 

 green Downs, flecked here and there with 

 yellow gorse like that of our home, and ending 

 in a sparkling blue that I afterwards found was 

 the sea. Skylarks were singing overhead : a 

 Stonechat was perched on a gorse-twig close by, 



