AUGUST 



THE silence which fell upon the birds in July 

 deepened in August. The early moulters 

 had not yet recovered ; the later ones had 

 already begun. 



The song of that valiant little musician, the 

 willow- wren, was only to be heard in the early 

 morning. But the full soul of the singer was no 

 longer in it. Nevertheless, it was one of the 

 delights of those songless days to go round by a 

 certain orchard and hear its morning song. The 

 bird might always be seen threading its way through 

 the little mazes of twigs and leaves at the ends of 

 the fruit-tree branches, searching for a breakfast, 

 and as it went it sang that exquisitely refined strain 

 of which it had given us such liberal measure the 

 summer through. Sometimes, however, it seemed 

 not to have the heart to finish it ; and at others the 

 song, delivered, perhaps, close to you, was so 

 subdued, as to sound as if it came from far off. 



It is easy to face December and swear that spring 

 is at hand, although the skaters are abroad on the 

 frozen water-meadows where the lark nests in its 



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