ROUND A LONDON COPSE s~ 



out into the sunshine over the field. It was a 

 great pleasure to see a kingfisher again. 



This hollow is the very place of singing birds in 

 June. Up in the oaks blackbirds whistle you 

 do not often see them, for they seek the leafy top 

 branches, but once now and then while fluttering 

 across to another perch. The blackbird's whistle 

 is very human, like some one playing the flute; an 

 uncertain player now drawing forth a bar of a 

 beautiful melody and then losing it again. He 

 does not know what quiver or what turn his note 

 will take before it ends ; the note leads him and 

 completes itself. His music strives to express his 

 keen appreciation of the loveliness of the days, the 

 golden glory of the meadow, the light, and the 

 luxurious shadows. 



Such thoughts can only be expressed in frag- 

 ments, like a sculptor's chips thrown off as the 

 inspiration seizes him, not mechanically sawn to a 

 set line. Now and again the blackbird feels the 

 beauty of the time, the large white daisy stars, the 

 grass with yellow-dusted tips, the air which comes 

 so softly unperceived by any precedent rustle of 

 the hedge. He feels the beauty of the time, and 

 he must say it. His notes come like wild flowers 

 not sown in order. There is not an oak here in 

 June without a blackbird. 



Thrushes sing louder here than anywhere else; 

 -189- 



