B4 IN THE ORCHARD. 
perhaps, for an ordinary common or garden 
song-thrush, did get so pecked about the head 
that it fled. 
Be this as it may, we see our champion 
ten minutes later, stationed boldly bang in the 
middle of the meadow, upright as a soldier, 
and as conspicuous, worm-hunting. Worm- 
hunting consists of a few hops, then a few 
seconds of statuesque listening, another few 
hops, and another ‘freeze,’ and so on. 
Try it, but you won’t see or hear, or what- 
ever the mistle-thrush did, any worms. Our 
friend, however, must have had a sixth sense, 
for he found two—two glorious tugs-of-war, 
ending in two sitting-backs on tail, and two 
halves of worms captured in triumph. But 
there’s one blessing; I don’t think the other 
halves can possibly have minded very much. 
And then suddenly came the commotion. 
It seemed as if some one, or some one else, 
had at that moment started in to murder 
half-a-dozen birds, at least, over the hedge 
yonder. 
The mistle-thrush rose, and, with a cry like 
running your teeth along a comb, flew in- 
stantly to the spot. He found a young cat 
in a hurry, and enveloped in a perfect halo of 
robins, hedge-sparrows, and chaffinches. One 
naked hedge-sparrow baby hung from the 
