IN A HERTFORDSHIRE LANE 
51 
so listen to the feathered musicians round about us. We hear 
the curious love songs of three or four varieties of titmice, the 
blue, cole, long tailed, and great tit’s ; the fluty blackbird and 
speckled thrush ; the cheery hedge-sparrow and artful red- 
breast ; the carol of a wren, and the warble of the wood wren ; 
the two whitethroats ; the ring and turtle doves ; the cawing 
rooks in the pasture lands, the plovers in the fallows ; the 
trilling skylark ; the abrupt song of the chaffinch, and sombre- 
plumed philomel. We can hear all these, and more besides, 
though they may not all be seen from our vantage ground. 
The sun is fast sinking now, but what a glorious sunset ! 
The sky is blue for the most part, with floating patches of light 
red, crimson and pink. Against this we see through the hedge- 
rows a few swallows and martins disporting themselves, and 
partaking of a few more luscious insects before bed time. The 
yellow bunting must not be overlooked, he is far too conspicuous 
an ornament to our landscape to be passed over. His nest is 
too snugly hid to attract our attention now, especially as it is 
getting quite dusk. 
How we know this old lane ! The gipsies used to camp here 
regularly in our childhood’s days, and just a stray party does so 
now occasionally. We remember where in years gone by we 
have found a certain rare nest, or seen a rare bird ; we discuss 
the various changes which have taken place all too quickly. 
We remember when that black wood in the distance was a mere 
plantation, and have gradually seen those winding paths made 
into a well-beaten track. We well remember the hospitable old 
gentleman who used to keep the old farmhouse at the top of 
the hill, and wish we could call him back again. 
A last peep into a thick holly bush, and we are just able to 
discern a nest full of young hedge-sparrows. There they are, 
five in number, all with gaping mouths waiting for another fill 
before the mother’s tender care is finished for the day, and they 
nestle beneath her warm little breast. All this we see in the 
lane, there is no need to go out of it, for new sights and sounds 
crop up at every turn. 
The labourer, decked out in his Sunday black, with his wife 
and children, the very picture of health, passes across the top 
of the lane and wishes us a cheery “good-night.” The sun has 
now departed, the feathered race are all silent, the daisies have 
closed their eyelids, and we leave this paradise to the occupants 
whose life and habits have afforded us such inferest and pleasure. 
W. Percival Westell, 
Aiithov of A Handbook of British 
Breeding Birds,” &c. 
