THE CITY OF THE BIRDS. 97 



of silver coins scattered on marble slabs ; and yet 

 they are not like those sounds, for the real life 

 and thrush spirit are lacking in them. The noted 

 melodist, however, is chary of his music; he 

 becomes instantly reserved, or his song at once 

 relapses into an irritable, peevish chirp, if he has 

 the least suspicion that you are regarding him. 

 These are his halcyon twilights, and his melliflu- 

 ous notes, in the season of his honeymoon, are 

 the overflowing of his blissful moods, or are 

 intended only to soothe and comfort his wife, who 

 is now hatching another brood of songs down 

 there in the bush. 



. Now he makes a willow his chantry and begins 

 to -sing his mass. But when he discovers that 

 he is entertaining strangers unawares, he abruptly 

 pauses, gives two or three chirps like those of a 

 lost chicken, and flits like a shadow, a rufous 

 ghost of a bird, through the leaves down to the 

 edge of the brook. Is he lingering there a 

 moment to get once more the key-note from the 

 water that ripples over certain pebbles .' 



