116 
BIRDS IN A VILLAGE, 
lighted, does not see them, and they are nothing 
in his life. Those who concern themselves to 
chronicle such incidents might just as well, for 
all that it matters to him, draw a little on their 
imaginations, and tell of sunward sailing cranes 
encamped on the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, 
flamingoes in the Round Pond, great snowy owls 
in Westminster Abbey, and an ibis — scarlet, 
glossy, or sacred, according to fancy — perched on 
Peabody's statue in the Royal Exchange. 
But his winter does not last for ever. When 
the bitter months are past, with March that 
mocks us with its' crown of daffodils ; when the 
sun shines, and the rain is soon over ; and elms 
and limes in park and avenue, and unsightly 
smoke-blackened brushwood in the squares, are 
dressed once more in tenderest heart-refreshing 
green, even in London we know that the birds 
have returned from beyond the sea. Why should 
they come to us here, when it would seem so 
much more to their advantage, and more natural 
for them to keep aloof from our dimmed atmo- 
s]3here, and the rude sounds of traffic, and the sight 
of many people going to and fro ? Are there no 
silent green retreats left where the conditions are 
better suited to their shy and delicate natures ? 
Yet no sooner is the spring come again than the 
birds are with us. Not always apparent to the 
