BIRDS IN A GARDEN. 
171 
The sun has just risen and gleams like a fiery ball above the 
horizon, darting level rays through the laurels on to the lawn, 
and making the dew-drops sparkle like thousands of jewels. 
Suddenly, from a tall fir-tree hard by, a blackbird pipes his 
loud, joyous call, another answers him, the thrush, the sparrow, 
and the chaffinch chime in, and you are listening to a charming 
madrigal — such as was never heard from a guinea concert stall - 
performed gratis for your benefit. 
The cuckoo’s cry is, of course, both from its inherent melody 
and from the associations that cluster round it, the most welcome 
note of spring. There is none .so old, so broken down with sick 
ness, or worn with sorrow, but feels at its first hearing some 
faint thrill of hope and pleasure. Who shall tell how many 
hearts this joyous paean has cheered, how many souls it has 
lifted above the sordid cares of earth ! Even the labourer, 
doomed to monotonous toil in the sodden fields, listens eagerly 
for the cuckoo’s note ; it comes to him as a dim revelation of 
some happy \vorld where men live free and careless, unburdened 
by the thought of the day’s pressing needs, or the grim un- 
certainty of the future. 
As the cuckoo heralds the approach of spring, so is the 
nightingale the earnest of her presence. 
The nightingale usually makes its appearance about April 15, 
earlier or later according to the season. We shall never forget 
the first time we heard it in our own garden. We had strolled out 
one mild sunny April morning, and as we passed down a shady 
walk there rang out from the neighbouring shrubbery a clear 
jubilant burst of song. It was the nightingale, not sad Philomel 
bewailing her lost Itys, but a joyous spirit singing victoriously of 
warmth and sunshine, and the voluptuous pomp of summer. 
There is no mistaking that note ; it is louder and clearer than 
that of any other British bird. At the same time it cannot boast 
of much variety, and when heard frequently may become a trifle 
monotonous. It is, moreover, apt to be somewhat disturbing at 
night to a bad sleeper. One then feels inclined to ask, with 
Fitzgerald, why the nightingale does not go to bed with the 
other birds ! We once knew a poet, who as long as he lived in 
town was a great admirer of the nightingale’s song, and vied 
with Keats in writing odes to its praise. When, however, he 
took a house in the country, and several nightingales perched on 
the trees near his window and diligently serenaded him, his 
opinions underwent a change, and one night, when his nerves 
were more than usually sensitive, this poet threw open his case- 
ment and {jujas dictu !) cried “ shoo ” to the nightingales ! 
This, of course, only proves the w'eakness and inconsistency of 
human nature ; it must, however, be said that the beauty of the 
nightingale’s song has been somewhat exaggerated, partly, 
perhaps, owing to the fact that being heard at night, as a solo, 
and also to its sudden changes of note, it gains closer attention 
than the general chorus of the other birds. We may remark, 
