90 THE BIRDS OF OUR RAMBLES. 



skipping about the twigs, and flitting in and out 

 of the earliest springtime foliage, every now and 

 then bounding into the air to capture a passing fly, 

 yet silent and ill at ease. All day has it kept to one 

 particular corner of the woods, by the banks of the 

 flooded trout-stream ; and at nightfall I have sud- 

 denly missed the little creature, as it has hidden 

 itself in some warm nook to sleep. A few hours' 

 rest, however, seems to work wonders in its 

 temperament. With the first flush of sunrise, the 

 newly-arrived Willow Wren begins its daily quest 

 for food, this time more vigorous and at home. 

 Insects are scarcer here as yet than in the 

 southern haunts beyond the sea, and it may be 

 the greater amount of energy required to find 

 them creates a more cheerful mood. Anyway, as 

 the sun rises higher in the heavens, and the 

 spring air becomes warm and balmy, the little 

 bird seems compelled to tell its new-found happi- 

 ness to the woods perhaps to learn if any others 

 of its race have arrived, for the party that jour- 

 neyed north together became separated in the 

 darkness of the night, and its tenderly sweet little 

 call-note is heard for the first time a low, in- 

 expressively beautiful for - eet (whistled softly 

 instead of spoken). Then perhaps a song is 

 uttered the first music the tiny bird has indulged 

 in since it began to sicken for the spring moult in 

 some far-off oasis of the Sahara, or perhaps since 

 it left these self-same woods last autumn. What a 

 low, half-frightened song it is, just as if the singer 

 were by no means certain of its efforts ; but the 

 sunshine gets brighter, the air warmer, the leaves 

 and flowers are refreshing, the increasing supply 

 of food is encouraging, and peal after peal of 



