52 
BIRDS IN A VILLAGE. 
dimmed by indifference, forgetting, as he pro- 
gresses, the small scraps of knowledge he acquired 
by looking sharpl}^ during the period of boyhood, 
when every living creature excited his attention. 
In Italy, notwithstanding the paucity of bird life, 
I believe that the peasants know their birds better. 
The reason of this is not far to seek; every bird, 
not even excepting the " temple-haunting martlet " 
and nightingale and minute golden-crested wren, 
is regarded only as a possible morsel to give a 
savour to a dish of polenta, if the shy little flitting 
thing can only be enticed within touching distance 
of the limed twigs. Thus they take a very strong 
interest in, and, in a sense, " love " birds. It is 
their passion for this kind of flavouring which has 
drained rural Italy of its songsters, and will in 
time have the same effect on Argentina, the 
country in which the withering stream of Italian 
emigration empties itself. 
From the date of my arrival at the village in 
May, until I left it early in July, the great annual 
business of pairing, nest-building, and rearing the 
young was going on uninterruptedly. The young 
of some of the earliest breeders were already strong 
on the wing when I took my first walks along the 
hedgerows, still in their early, vivid green, fre- 
quently observing my bird through a white and 
