IN A WARWICKSHIRE PARISH 
83 
have seen some which from their very blackness — dirt, not 
colour — must have been born and bred in the city ; the dirty 
sparrows come in flocks, and then, either they break up and 
settle or go back to town, at any rate the dirty squad disappears, 
or becomes clean and so unrecognisable, in about ten days’ time. 
I notice you spell yellow-ammer with an “ h.” When I had my 
large text copy-book years ago I spelt it as above, so Chambers 
are responsible. 
The long stretch of lime trees, which are so very beautiful 
and fragrant in spring and summer, are dripping : though the 
hum of bees is absent, they are not altogether deserted. There 
is a great tit standing on a twig hammering away, as a relative 
of his does all day long on the horse-chestnut outside my study 
window. 
But amid all this damp, dreary depression, there was one 
little ray of light, one little sign of better things to come. The 
larks were still “congregate;” but two, as I passed, mounted a 
few feet above the level of the hedge, and favoured me with a 
bar or two. Yes, in spite of present appearances, I said to 
myself, spring is coming, the larks told me so. And spring 
came sooner than I thought for. 
On Sunday morning, February 25, I had the same walk. 
The same walk did I say ? I traversed the same ground, that 
was all. To you who have lived all your life in the town, I can 
scarcely tell how different the walk was from that of the previous 
Sunday. As I left the house and went down the drive I saw 
how full to bursting the lilac buds were. At the bottom of the 
drive, in the big elm tree, a throstle was singing. How could 
one help being reminded of Tennyson’s beautiful lines, which 
not only tell us what the throstle sings, but so admirably how 
he sings it. 
“ Summer is coming. Summer is coming. 
I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again. 
Yes, my wild little poet. 
“ Love again, song again, nest again, young again. 
Never a prophet so crazy I 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend. 
See, there is hardly a daisy. 
“ Here again, here, here, here, happy year, 
O warble unchidden, unbidden ! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear. 
And all the winters are hidden.” 
(I picked my first daisy to-day, March 12.) 
In Lane’s garden, to come back to my walk to church, I 
saw a very impertinent blackbird quarrelling with a couple of 
chaffinches — his “ silver tongue ” was using very bad language 
indeed. Chaffinches all along the road were singing their pretty 
little melody, like the Amen of a plainsong hymn tune. They no 
longer deserve to be called Ccelebs. 
