EARLY SPRING IN SAVERNAKE FOREST 87 



In East Anglia I have been informed that what 

 the bird really and truly says is 



My toe bleeds, Betty. 



Many as are the species capable of articulate 

 speech, as we may see by referring to any orni- 

 thological work, there is no bird in our woods whose 

 notes more readily lend themselves to this childish 

 fancy than the wood-pigeon, on account of the depth 

 and singularly human quality of its voice. The song 

 is a passionate complaint. One can fancy the human- 

 like feathered creature in her green bower, plead- 

 ing, upbraiding, lamenting; and, listening, we will 

 find it easy enough to put it all into plain language : 



swear not you love me, for you cannot be true, 



perjured wood-pigeon ! Go from me woo 



Some other ! Heart-broken I rue 



That softness, ah me ! when you cooed your false coo. 



Soar to your new love the creature in blue ! 



Who, who would have thought it of you ! 



And perhaps you consider her beau 



Oo tiful ! you are too too cru 



Bid them come shoo oot me, do, do ! 



Would I had given my heart to a hoo 



Oo-ting wood-owl, cuckoo, woodcock, hoopoo ! 



One morning, at a village in Berkshire, I was 

 walking along the road, about twenty-five yards 

 from a cottage, when I heard, as I imagined, the 

 familiar song of the wood-pigeon; but it sounded 



