166 Wild Life in a Southern County. 
grass, it is pleasant to listen to the blackbirds in the 
oaks pouring forth their rich liquid notes. There is 
no note so sweet and deep and melodious as that of 
the blackbird to be heard in our fields; it is even 
richer than the nightingale’s, though not so varied. 
Just before noonday—between eleven and twelve— 
when the heat increases, he leaves the low thick bushes 
and moist ditches and mounts up into an oak tree, 
where, on a branch, he sits and sings. Then another 
at a distance takes up the burden, till by-and-by, as 
you listen, partly hidden in a gateway, four or five are 
thus engaged in the trees of a single meadow, 
He sings in a quiet, leisurely way, as a great artist 
should—there is no haste, no notes thickening on notes. 
in swift crescendo. His voice (so to speak) drops from 
him, without an effort, and is so clear that it may be 
heard at a long distance. It is not a set song; 
perhaps, in strict language, it is hardly a song at all, 
but rather a succession of detached notes with inter- 
vals between. Except when singing, the blackbird 
does not often frequent trees; he is a hedge-bird, 
though sometimes when you are looking at a field of 
green corn or beans one will rise out of it and fly to 
a tree—a solitary tree such as is sometimes seen in 
the midst of an arable field. At Wick Farm, sitting 
in the cool parlour, or in the garden under the shade 
of the trees, you may hear him almost every morning 
in the meadows that come right up to the orchard 
hedge. That hedge is his favourite approach to the 
