THE THRUSH. 
83 
where it sits up and growls at me, striking its little paws angrily, 
yet nibbling at intervals at some morsel of woodland diet, its 
graceful little feather of a tail curved over its back like a note of 
interrogation. Now it sees one of its own kind, an interloper 
apparently, for away go the pair after each other, round and 
round the tree in a spiral chase, with such rapidity that one 
could almost imagine one saw a chain of squirrels garlanding 
the old stem. 
Hour after hour may thus be spent in quiet musing upon 
the fair sights and sounds that greet us in the peaceful woods. 
Weary toilworn minds will not fail to gather fresh strength and 
courage from such communing. Nature’s voice speaks straight 
to the heart, refreshing and invigorating it as dew restores the 
sun-parched flowers at nightfall; the unrest and turmoil of the 
world is forgotten for a time, and every avenue to the soul is 
filled with new and soothing influences. Sweet voiced birds tell 
their tale of happiness as they plume their tiny wings, and 
murmur their love notes to unseen nest-brooding mates. The 
rustle of the leaves, the swaying of the branches, the mysterious 
music of the woods, made up of a thousand harmonies blended 
together. No pen can describe it, but the ear attuned to Nature 
can drink it in and taste such joyous enchantment as lifts it for 
the time far above earth’s toils and cares, and will leave for 
many an after day a sweet refrain of echoing music to cheer the 
busy worker in the midst of surroundings which would other- 
wise bring to him no reminder of the green woods, where 
“ The long drooping boughs between 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen, 
Alternate come and go.” 
E. Brightwen. 
THE THRUSH. 
. A Sonnet on hearing a thrush sing during a storm at Wispers, near Midhurst , 
10th May, 1890. 
A stormy morning in the month of May, 
When the wind howls and drives the pelting rain, 
Brings solitude to hill, and wood and plain, 
Saddening the flowers which yestreen were so gay. 
Yet ’mid the elements’ so fierce display, 
A thrush pours forth a rich, melodious strain, 
Singing of hope, sweet warbler, not in vain, 
Blue skies, soft gales, and the sun's quickening ray. 
So may I ’mid the varied storms of life, 
The loss of one best loved, and many a friend, 
And other strokes of fortune and of fate, 
Still in my heart find such sweet music rife, 
That I a grateful hymn may upward send 
For blessings that remain to compensate. 
Highgate, N. C. Tomlinson, F.R.S. 
