CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



national superstition, with a drop of the deviPs blood 

 beneath his pretty crest, pretty in spite of that cruel 

 creed — or green-finch, too rich in plumage for his 

 poorer song — or shilfa, the beautiful nest-builder, 

 shivering his white-plumed wings in shade and sun- 

 shine, in joy the most rapturous, in grief the most 

 despairing of all the creatures of the air — or redpole, 

 balanced on the down of the thistle or flower of the 

 bun weed on the old clovery lea — or, haply twice seen 

 in a season, the very goldfinch himself, a radiant and 

 gorgeous spirit brought on the breeze from afar, and 

 worthy, if only slightly wounded, of being enclosed 

 within a silver cage from Fairy Land. 



But we waxed more ambitious as we grew old — 

 and then woe to the rookery on the elm-tree grove! 

 Down dropt the dark denizens in dozens, rebounding 

 with a thud and a skraigh from the velvet moss, 

 which under that umbrage formed firm floor for 

 Titania's feet — while others kept dangling dead or 

 dying by the claws, cheating the crusted pie, and all 

 the blue skies above were intercepted by cawing 

 clouds of distracted parents, now dipping down in 

 despair almost within shot, and now, as if sick of this 

 w^orld, soaring away up into the very heavens, and 

 disappearing to return no more — till sunset should 

 bring silence, and the night air roll off' the horrid 

 smell of sulphur from the desolated bowers; and then 

 [57] 



