BIRDS IN A VILLAGE 45 



a tree-pipit. He sang in the air and, circling 

 gracefully down, would alight on the branch, 

 where, sitting near me and plainly visible, he 

 would finish his song and renew it at intervals; 

 then, leaving the loved perch, he would drop, sing- 

 ing, to the ground, just a few yards beyond the 

 tree's shadow; thence, singing again, he would 

 mount up and up above the tree, only to slide 

 down once more with set, unfluttering wings, with 

 a beautiful swaying motion to the same old rest- 

 ing-place on the branch, there to sing and sing and 

 sing. 



If Melendez himself had come to me with 

 flushed face and laughing eyes, and sat down on 

 the grass at my side to recite one of his most en- 

 chanting poems, I should, with finger on lip, have 

 enjoined silence; for in the mood I was then in 

 at that sequestered spot, with the landscape out- 

 side my shady green pavilion bathed and quivering 

 in the brilliant sunshine, this small bird had sud- 

 denly become to me more than any other singer, 

 feathered or human. And yet the tree-pipit is 

 not very highly regarded among British melodists, 

 on account of the little variety there is in its song. 

 Nevertheless, it is most sweet — perhaps the 



