IN AN OLD GARDEN aai 



the sunshine and was gone. Nor did I notice when 

 the little wren ceased singing overhead. At length, 

 recalled to myself, I began to wonder at the unusual 

 silence in the garden, until, casting my eyes on the 

 lawn, I discovered the reason ; for there, moving 

 about in their various ways, most of the birds were 

 collected in a loose miscellaneous Sock, a kind of 

 happy family. There were the starlings, returned 

 from the fields, and looking like little speckled rooks ; 

 some sparrows, and a couple of robins hopping about 

 in their wild startled manner ; in strange contrast 

 to these last appeared that little feathered clod- 

 hopper, the chaffinch, plodding over the turf as if 

 he had hobnailed boots on his feet ; last, but not 

 least, some statuesque blackbirds and thrushes, 

 moving, when they moved, like automata. They 

 aU appear to be finding something to eat; but I 

 watch the thrushes principally, for these are more 

 at home on the moist earth than the others, and 

 have keener senses, and seek for nobler game. I 

 see one suddenly thrust his beak into the turf and 

 draw from it a huge earthworm, a wriggling serpent, 

 so long that although he holds his head high, a third 

 of the pink cylindrical body still rests in its run. 

 What will he do with it S* We know how wandering 

 Waterton treated the boa which he courageously 

 grasped by the tail as it retreated into thfe bushes. 

 Naturally, it turned on him, and, lifting high its 



