Fox's Earth to Mountain Tarn 



were singing. Scarce had one song time to die 

 into silence than another awoke. 



Only to the shallow do all birds sing alike. So 

 much came clearly out. There is character, 

 accent, tone, and choice of notes, so that it were 

 possible to know each thrush from all other 

 thrushes of the wood. No one supposes that the 

 sitter on the blue eggs with the black spots does 

 not know the voice of her lord, and care for it 

 more than for the rest. Ay, and she knows the 

 song of the thrushes that came to court her, and, 

 when she would have none of them, won other 

 mates. The rivals, too, can tell each other's 

 song, and each knows all the voices as though 

 this corner of thrushland were some suburban 

 society. 



Nor does the same bird sing the one song. In 

 the free wild play of sound which the thrush 

 pours out on the air, this is more apparent than 

 in the repeated lay of the chaffinch. There is 

 imitation. A lazy blackbird note finds its way in. 

 There is also rivalry. On such a night, when all 

 are doing so well, it pitches higher or adds an 

 octave to the scale. 



If the birds of the same wood do not sing 

 alike, still less do those of different woods. The 

 birds of the south do not sing as the birds of 

 the north, any more than the Somerset people 

 talk as the Fife folk. The air, the scene, the 

 voice of other birds all mould and weave at 



K 129 



