FROM YEAR TO YEAR. 
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“ This, this is holy ; — while I hear 
These vespers of another year, 
This hymn of ilianks ami praise, 
My spirit seems to mount above 
The anxieties of human love. 
And earth’s precarious days. 
“ Hut list ! — tho’ winter’s storms be nigh 
Unchecked is that soft harmony ; 
There lives who can provide 
For all flis creatures ; and in Him, 
Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
These choristers confide.” 
Of all the poets, Wordsworth seems most to have appreciated 
the redbreast’s touching song ; those lines of his “ To a Red- 
breast ” (in sickness), are not as well known as they deserve to 
be ; the two last verses run as follows : — 
“ Methinks that in my dying hour 
Thy song would still be dear. 
And with a more than earthly power 
My passing spirit cheer. 
“ Then, little bird, this boon confer. 
Come, and my requiem sing. 
Nor fail to be the harbinger 
Of everlasting Spring.” 
Amidst the days of storm in this wild October, there have 
been transient hours of welcome sunshine, when we could note 
the bird-life around us ; but it was on one of the few fine after- 
noons that September brought us, when, as the witching hour of 
sunset approached, a sound as of a vast company of sparrows, 
chirping in something like unison, fell on our long-suffering ears. 
A chirping from one alone there was heard, which methinks pro- 
ceeded from ’Arriet, as we call the ancestress of the tribe (’Arry 
being a fit name for her spouse), and thus she addressed the 
crowd of her descendants — for time was when our garden was 
an abode of peace, with only this one pair of sparrows to break 
the calm of the sanctuary : — 
“ And now, my dear children, this has been an exhausting 
year for me ; never did hen-sparrow bring up so many broods as 
I this hot season, and now I must have a change of air. I have 
taught you the art of snatching as no one else could ; if food is 
scarce, follow close on those pampered chaffinches and redbreasts, 
and snatch the crumbs from under their beaks — and once more we 
will sing the song I taught you as nestlings.” And from a multi- 
tude of brown throats went up a miserable substitute for song in 
harsh chirps, and I, too well accustomed to the sparrow language 
understood it thus : — ' 
Snatch and steal, grab and steal, 
Jabber and chirp, and chatter and squeal ; 
Everything take and nothing give, 
This is the way we sparrows live. 
Then ’Arriet flicked her tail and flew up to her favourite warm 
corner in the ivy against the kitchen wall. But on reaching it, 
