From Fox's Earth 



chirpy scream. It is a voice of the twilight, 

 summer as well as winter heard at other times, 

 but always then. It is not a call. Like the 

 robin, he is self-sufficient, with perhaps this little 

 difference, that he is not so solitary. Half a 

 dozen male blackbirds are often so near together 

 as to suggest a certain bachelor party. The 

 scream has been vaguely referred to some state 

 of excitement. It is uttered every night, almost 

 as matter of emotional routine. The light was 

 fading down the steep gradient of winter twilight. 

 The day's activities were over. It was on its 

 way to roost. The suggestions were all of quiet 

 and rest. 



The grey-green of the lapwings blends, very 

 perfectly with the neutral-tinted air and the hue 

 of the field. The eye wanders over the scene 

 more than once, ere it picks them out. They 

 were very quiet, mostly resting. A grey-green 

 shadow shifted its place only to rest again. The 

 running was hard to follow against the soil. In 

 the short, lazy flights, the green appeared as 

 black. One rose hastily and flew further. It 

 had found some food. Two ' black-headed gulls 

 were in pursuit. Quiescent as they looked, the 

 gulls were watching the lapwings. They always 

 do. Notwithstanding these movements, the as- 

 pect of the field was that of rest. It was a 

 siesta. 



From a little strip of wood running down the 

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