AUTUMN. I/I 



near the house, and the Shufflewing (hedge 

 accentor) in his new coat is flitting in and out 

 of the hedge; while winter's favourite, the Robin 

 Redbreast, in his new dress, comes hopping on 

 the scene, quite proud of himself as he chants 

 his sweet, eloquent song. There is no bird that 

 I like so well to hear sing as the Robin. There 

 is a tender pathos perhaps more evident at this 

 season, when other birds are silent and a sweet- 

 ness and variety that you do not find in any 

 other bird. At this season the fringe of winter 

 he appears to pour out his song in the exuber- 

 ance of high spirits and happiness. 



" Thy friendly heart, thy nature mild, 



Thy weakness and docility, 

 Creep to the love of man and child, 

 And win thine own felicity." 



The Wren, another winter singer, is different 

 in habit, flitting in an out of the bushes on the 

 bank, and not coming so near our abode as the 

 Robin. He is a sweet singer, and 



" When icicles hang dripping from the rock, 

 Pipes his perennial lay." 



