BIBDS IN A VILLAGE. 
79 
appeared coarse, and I wished the birds away. 
But with the true and brilliant songsters it seemed 
to me that the running, rippling greenfinch music 
was always in harmony, forming as it were a kind 
of airy, subdued accompaniment to their loud and 
ringing tones. 
I had had my nightingale days, my cuckoo and 
blackbird and tree-pipit days, with others too 
numerous to mention, and now I was having my 
greenfinch days ; and these were the last. 
Early in July one morning I was in my sitting- 
room, when in the hedge on the other side of the 
lane, just opposite my window, a small brown bird 
warbled a few rich notes, the prelude to his song. 
I went and stood by the open window, intently 
listening, when it sang again, but only a phrase or 
two. But I listened still, confidently expecting 
more ; for although it was now long past its singing 
season, that splendid sunshine would compel it to 
express its gladness. Then, just when a fresh 
burst of music came, it was disturbed by another 
sound close by — a human voice, also singing. On 
the other side of the hedge in which the bird sat 
concealed was a cottage garden, and there on a 
swing fastened to a pair of apple trees, a girl about 
ten years old sat lazily swinging herself. Once or 
twice after she began singing the nightingale broke 
