THE BIRD AND ITS SONG 



HAT would the world do without a nightin- 

 gale ? 



What would the rose be without a 

 bulbul ? 



What — if it comes to asking questions 

 — would Christmas be without a red- 

 breasted robin to put on the cards and into the illustrated 

 Christmas numbers ? 



Truly it would be Hamlet with the part of Hamlet left 

 out. Vaguely one realizes how the ear listens for the song 

 of birds, when in some slum street of back London a 

 thrush's song floats in mellow captured cadence from an 

 upper window, filling the squalid surroundings with un- 

 erring joy of life. Singing, singing as if it were on the 

 swaying top of a beech tree rearing itself above its fellows 

 for a peep of God's good world, His even sunshine. His 

 even rain. 



But there, answer would come swiftly, insistent ; here 

 the notes die away into silence unchallenged, perhaps 

 unheard; for the organ grinds on, the street children clatter 

 a dance to it on the pavement, the door of the gin palace 

 at the end of the street swings backwards and forwards 

 rhythmically. 



