Bird Life in November. 



November perhaps of all the months holds the lowest 

 place in popular esteem. In cities and large towns it 

 often presents itself under an aspect so depressing as 

 to defy all attempt at palliation, and even in the 

 country it must be admitted that a large proportion 

 of the dark and dismal days which lead up to Christmas 

 fall within the compass of its last three weeks. There 

 are days when all the daylight seems to die out of the 

 damp-laden atmosphere before the afternoon is half 

 spent, — when in the sodden, dripping woods all is 

 silent, as if the birds were afraid of their own voices. 

 But let us not forget how, earlier in the month, 

 St. Martin never fails to bring us a day or two, some- 

 times a whole fortnight, when it is summer again for 

 the few sunlit hours on either side of mid-day, when 

 the flies still bask against a sunny wall and hive-bees 

 visit the ivy-blossom for their last scanty potations 

 of the year. 



After the frost of early morning the ash-leaves fall 

 silently, unchanged in colour and unstirred by the 

 least breath of wind. As the sun gets through, robins 

 pipe cheerfully from the hedges, and skylarks trill, 



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