THE BIRDS IN THE MOON 



THE lover of birds who lias spent the day in 

 the field puts away his glasses at nightfall, 

 looking forward to a walk after dark only as 

 a chance to hear the call of nocturnal birds or to 

 catch the whirr of a passing wing. But some 

 bright moonlight night in early May, or again in 

 mid September, unsheath your glasses and tie 

 them, telescope-fashion, to a window-ledge or rail- 

 ing. Seat yourself in an easy position and focus 

 on the moon. Shut out all earthly scenes from 

 your mind and imagine yourself wandering amid 

 those arid wastes. What a scene of cosmic desola- 

 tion! What vast deserts, and gaping craters of 

 barren rock! The cold, steel-white planet seems 

 of all things most typical of death. 



But those specks passing across its surface? 

 At first you imagine they are motes clogging the 

 delicate blood-vessels of the retina; then you 

 wonder if a distant host of falling meteors could 

 have passed. Soon a larger, nearer mote ap- 

 pears ; the moon and its craters are forgotten and 

 with a thrill of delight you realise that they are 

 birds — living, flying birds — of all earthly things 

 typical of the most vital life! Migration is at its 

 height, the chirps and twitters which come from 



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