THE SONG. 241 
But autumn has arrived. While the lark gathers behind the plough 
the harvest of insects, the guests of the northern countries come to 
visit us: the thrush, punctual to our vintage-time; and, haughty 
under his crown, the wren, the imperceptible ‘‘ King of the North.” 
From Norway, at the season of fogs, he comes, and, under a gigantic 
fir-tree, the little magician sings his mysterious song, until the extreme 
cold constrains him to descend, to mingle, and make himself popular 
among the little troglodytes which dwell with us, and charm our cot- 
tages by their limpid notes. 
The season grows rough; all the birds draw nearer man. The 
honest bullfinches, fond and faithful couples, come, with a short 
melancholy chirp, to solicit help. The winter-warbler also quits his 
bushes ; timid as he is, he grows sufficiently bold towards evening to 
raise outside our doors his trembling voice with its monotonous, 
plaintive accents. 
“When, in the first mists of October, shortly before winter, the 
poor proletarian seeks in the forest his pitiful provision of dead wood, 
a small bird approaches him, attracted by the noise of his axe; he 
hovers around him, and taxes his wits to amuse him by singing in 
a very low voice his softest lays. It is the robin redbreast, which a 
charitable fairy has despatched to tell the solitary labourer that there 
is still some one in nature interested in him. 
‘When the woodcutter has collected the brands of the preceding 
day, reduced to cinders; when the chips and the dry branches crackle 
in the flames, the robin hastens singing to enjoy his share of the 
warmth, and to participate in the woodcutter’s happiness. 
‘““When Nature retires to slumber, and folds herself in her mantle 
of snow ; when one hears no other voices than those of the birds of 
the North, which define in the air their rapid triangles, or that of the 
north wind, which roars and engulfs itself in the thatched roof of the 
cottages, a tiny flute-like song, modulated in softest notes, protests 
still, in the name of creative work, against the universal weakness, 
lamentation, and lethargy.” 
Open your windows, for pity’s sake, and give him a few crumbs, 
16 
