102 NATUBE NEAR LONDON. 



came unexpectedly from the shadow of the trees, 

 across the lane, and out into the sunshine over the 

 field. It was a great pleasure to see a kingfisher 

 again. 



This hollow is the very place of singing birds in 

 June. Up in the oaks blackbirds whistle — you do 

 not often see them, for they seek the leafy top branches, 

 but once now and then while fluttering across to 

 another perch. The blackbird's whistle is very human, 

 like some one playing the flute ; an uncertain player 

 now drawing forth a bar of a beautiful melody and 

 then losing it again. He does not know what quiver 

 or what turn his note wdll take before it ends ; the 

 note leads him and completes itself. His music 

 strives to express his keen appreciation of the love- 

 liness of the days, the golden glory of the meadow, 

 the light, and the luxurious shadows. 



Such thoughts can only be expressed in fragments, 

 like a sculptor's chips thrown off as the inspiration 

 seizes him, not mechanically sawn to a set line. Now 

 and again the blackbird feels the beauty of the time, 

 the large white daisy stars, the grass with yellow- 

 dusted tips, the air which comes so softly unperceived 

 by any precedent rustle of the hedge. He feels the 

 beauty of the time, and he must say it. His notes 

 come like wild flowers not sown in order. There is 

 not an oak here in June without a blackbird. 



Thrushes sing louder here than anywhere else ; 

 they really seem to sing louder, and they are all 

 around. Thrushes appear to vary their notes with 

 the period of the year, singing louder in the summer, 

 and in the mild days of October when the leaves lie 



