156 OUR WOODLAND ‘TREES. 
oppressive silence. But hark! The stillness is 
suddenly broken by the blackbird. The song, 
however, is like the flicker of a dying light. 
It is a brilliant burst of music, prompted doubt- 
less by a momentary impatience of the oppressive 
calm of the advancing twilight. The twilight 
song of the blackbird is, we think, amongst the 
most striking of woodland carols. Oftentimes 
this bold free songster sings last of all the day 
birds, and its evensong appears—perhaps by con- 
trast with the almost oppressive silence which 
reigns in the sylvan glades as the shadows of 
evening creep on—to ring through the woods 
with unusual melody and force. 
But we have lingered too long—who has not 
done so a thousand times?—drinking in the 
sweet music of the woodland, and the shades of 
the advancing night have been coming on apace. 
Even the song of the blackbird is now hushed. 
All the day birds have gone to their rest, and we 
are traversing an expanse of forest unknown to 
us, without a path or other guide than the 
faithful compass. Yet we have a strange sense of 
pleasure in the wildness and loneliness of our 
