LEAVES FROM AN APRIL JOURNAL. 43 



for a week has been a half-regretful chirp, mounts 

 a high branch, after a bountiful repast from the 

 spongy meadows, and, with a crop full of wriggling 

 worms, gives his love song — the champion robin 

 singer! His tone and articulation was different 

 from others noticed. He seemed to sing in his 

 best voice, sphere-sphere, then chewy chewy. It 

 was a clear case of showing off his talent to his 

 lady love. Both had left the common occupation 

 of the meadows and ascended the holy of holies. 

 Their Pecksniffian character had been entirely cast 

 aside and they had assumed more of the nature 

 and quality of their relatives the thrushes. Later 

 I heard their soft murmurings or bird whisperings 

 in another tree, where I concluded the maiden had 

 said Yes. Amongst a thick growth of young 

 beeches by the stream, a small brown bird is flitting 

 about on the ground and creeping among the dry 

 leaves in such an uncommon, whimsical, mouse-like 

 way, that my inquisitiveness is at once aroused. 

 Moving nearer to obtain a better view it suddenly 

 skulks into a bunch of pine brush towards which 

 I cautiously approach. Soon the little oddity 

 emerges from its retreat, but finding me so near it 

 becomes confused and flies so low, rapidly and 

 irregularly over the brush heap, as to appear for 



