Birds in the 
Sanctuary. 
(5) 
THE BIRD WORLD. 
Birds in the Sanctuary. 
By LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL. 
Far from the world there stands an ancient 
house at Much Wenlock known as the Prior’s 
House. This venerable building rises beside a 
ruined church built by Roger, the renowned 
Earl of Montgomery, “ lover ” and adviser of 
William the Conqueror. Abbey and church 
were built by him to commemorate the great 
Norman victory, and for the greater glory of 
God. All round the church are planted trees 
and flowering shrubs, and between the ruined 
walls there is a fair garden, where many a bird 
builds each spring and early summer. I call 
this place my sanctuary, for just as in the middle 
ages men and women, when outlawed, sought 
a refuge in church or abbey, so in this little 
favoured spot no bird may be trapped or shot, 
and no nest may be taken. Some years ago I 
counted the various kinds of nests in the sanc¬ 
tuary, and they amounted in all to 23 sorts. 
The Charm of Birds. 
Some of them, in fact, most of them, are 
well known to every naturalist, but the charm 
of birds is infinite, even of the commonest and 
dullest. If music can loosen a heart that care 
has bound, how much more can the unrestrained 
gush of melody poured forth by merle or mavis ? 
In early days the poets knew the value of sweet 
sounds in a garden, besides the charm of sweet 
scents, and they knew also how greatly one 
delight adds to the charm of the other. 
Scotch Jamie, the captive king, when a pris¬ 
oner at Windsor, left us the most delightful 
picture of the garden beneath his prison win¬ 
dow. He speaks of a garden fair, of arbours 
green, of hawthorn hedges, and of the deep 
shade they gave. He loved the thick boughs 
and leaves green, the shaded alleys, and the 
“ sharp, sweet scent of the juniper,” but best of 
all he loved “ the little sweet nightingale,” who 
sang bold and clear, now soft, now loud, so that 
all the walls, he declared, rang “ right of their 
song.” 
Again, what can be more delightful in a rose- 
garden than bowers for the feathered choristers 
to build in, so that, as dear old Chaucer has it: 
“ When the savour of the roses swote, 
Quite straighte to the heart rote,” 
the owner of the garden can also regale his 
soul with the song of thrush or linnet. 
The Chant of the Storm-Cock. 
Nothing can conjure up the charm of summer 
so swiftly as the scent of a rose, and nothing 
can fill us with deeper delight than the triumph¬ 
ant chant of the Storm-Cock, as folks call him 
in Shropshireland, for in his magnificent gush 
of melody is the promise of all fair things. Last 
spring, as I heard one pipe his lay, or what 
the father of English poetry would have called 
his “Te Deum Amoris,” I agreed with him that 
Tubal Cain, the first musician of the world, 
“ With key of armony could not unlocke 
So sweet tune as the throstel can.” 
Perhaps there is no more delightful pastime 
than to lie down on a lawn, count the daisies, 
the empress flower of all flowers, “ si douce est 
la marguerite,” and to watch the wiles and 
ways of the wild birds as they fly hither and 
thither, and to and fro. If you have but 
patience, many are the different kinds that can 
easily be observed and their habits learned. A 
water wagtail will bob up and down, its loose 
tail waggling like a leaf in a summer breeze. 
A thrush will dart out from a hedge or thicket 
and carry off a worm; a pink-breasted chaf¬ 
finch, with the pride of a Scotch piper, will 
strut or hover round you almost fearless, and 
at last catch a fly and vanish with a flash of 
snow-white wings; a swallow will skim the turf 
and disappear like lightning; and a fat, 
golden-beaked blackbird will appear, and then 
depart with an angry rattle, as though he was 
master of the whole place and that you were 
the intruder. 
From far and near, from every tree and bower, 
will come the song of warblers, and the clear, 
bell-like note of robin and piedfinch, as we at 
Wenlock call the chaffinch. 
Glimpses of Rarer Birds. 
Besides these, glimpses can also be had of 
the rarer birds—black-pated bullfinches, the hen 
clad in Puritan fashion, and the cock a glory 
of brilliant plumage; goldfinches that recall 
Raphael’s beautiful picture, and are so called 
because of the exquisite flash of their yellow 
wings. The oock, by the bye, has a very sweet 
note, with occasionally a sharp, shrill cry. 
Then there are greenfinches, a common variety 
of British bird, it is true, but exquisitely lovely 
with their pale primrose coloured and thick 
beaks, and their delicate pale olive-green plu¬ 
mage, which resembles green apples held up 
against the sunlight. The cock greenfinch has a 
curious song—one sweet note followed by a string 
of discords, almost as unmusical as the mutterings 
of an angry jay in the shadow of a wood. 
Besides these full-fledged and charming in¬ 
habitants of a garden there are all the young 
creatures of early spring, often ugly, but always 
full of interest. There are half-fledged thrushes 
that gape at one with yellow beaks from their 
clay-bound nests; downy hedge sparrows who 
appear when the eggs are hatched, infinitesimal 
wrens, tiny yellow and blue tomtits, and scraps 
of dab-chicks by pond or mere. Last year a 
pair of moor-hens, even, built a nest encircled 
by some arum lilies that we planted in an old 
abbey stew-pond, and four years ago I found a 
nest of the yellow wagtail beside the water. 
