NOVEMBER 219 



of a flock of rooks is no less a marvel of concerted 

 wingmanship. 



November is in truth a medley of all the seasons- 

 The illusion of the few all-but-summer days with 

 which the month enters is sometimes heightened by 

 the sight of a belated swallow. These November 

 swallows are as a rule young birds of late broods. 

 Not strong enough upon the wing to leave with their 

 fellows, they linger with us until cut off by the first 

 sharp touch of frost. Later in the month, when the 

 bulbs send up green, pointed wedges to break ground, 

 when silvery-white willow catkins push back the 

 bud-scales, and when primroses and violets flower in 

 sheltered nooks, the time of the year might almost 

 be early spring. But these tentative and premature 

 awakenings are not seldom discouraged before the 

 month is out by a sharp reminder that the winter is 

 still before us. 



However, if open weather continues, there is, in 

 November's closing days, a fresh and louder-voiced 

 element of hopefulness in the thrush's song, which 

 tells of faith that the turn of the year is not far distant. 

 The mistle-thrush, too, sings more frequently, and 

 now and again a tit may be heard practising its spring 

 note. At the beginning of the month the chaffinch 

 ceases his autumn song — but a poor affair at the best 

 — but the robin and wren, and, in districts where it 

 is found, the woodlark, do not fail us. But there 



