The Blackbirds Bath. 165 
observing him. There is a bold English inde- 
pendence about him—an insolent consciousness of 
‘his own beauty. He must somehow have read 
Shakespeare, for he seems quite aware of his ‘orange 
tawny bill’ and deep black hue. He might really 
know that he figures in a famous ballad, and that 
four-and-twenty of his species were considered a dish 
to set before a king. 
It is a sight to see him take his bath. In a 
meadow not far from the house here is a shallow but 
clear streamlet, running down a deep broad ditch 
overshadowed by tall hemlock and clogweed, arched 
over with willow, whose leaves when the wind blows 
and their under-side is exposed give the hedge a grey 
tint, with maple and briar. Hide yourself here on 
a summer morning among the dry grass and bushes, 
and presently the blackbird comes to stand a minute 
on a stone which checks the tiny stream like a minia- 
ture rock, and then to splash the clear water over 
head and back with immense energy. He repeats 
this several times, and immediately afterwards flies 
to an adjacent rail, where, unfettered by boughs, he 
can preen his feathers, going through his toilet with 
the air of a prince. Finally, he perks his tail up, and 
challenges the world with the call already mentioned, 
which seems now to mean, ‘ Come and see Me; am I 
not handsome?’ 
On a warm June day, when the hedges are covered 
with roses and the air is sweet with the odour of mown 
