With the 
Blackbird. 
(27) THE BIRD WORLD. 
ceeded to carry out his ideas of reform. 
He screamed at the Chaffinch, chattered 
to the Starling, and abused the Lark, 
who retorted angrily that he had been 
skywards long before Tom had even 
thought of taking his head from under 
his wing. 
“ Only you talk so much that you can’t 
hear anything else. I’m sure I sang 
loud enough in all consciousness; but 
you can have absolutely no ear for 
music. There are some people made 
that way, I believe, poor things ! Think 
yourself the only early riser, do you? 
Just like your conceit. Yesterday I was 
on the wing at 3 o’clock, and this morn¬ 
ing I was up at- 
But the Blackbird did not want to 
hear at what time the Lark had risen 
that morning, because he was afraid that 
he might have noticed his futile hunt on 
the common, and make some nasty, 
sneering remark about it, so he hurriedly 
left and pushed a Greenfinch off his 
perch with quite unnecessary violence. 
“ Get up, sleepy-head! ” he called to 
the Missel Thrush as soon as he con¬ 
sidered himself safe out of reach of his 
revengeful beak, and then stared rudely 
into a Bullfinch’s nest, startling the 
mother-bird crooning over four ugly little 
nestlings—to her the most beautiful 
things in creation. The cock bird had 
gone out to get them something to eat, 
or the Blackbird would have been told 
to mend his manners. However, he 
passed on, and saw a fox slinking quietly 
along the hedgerow to his lair, carrying 
in his mouth a duck from the yard of 
a neighbouring farm; and a hare who 
had squatted all night long in a thick 
tuft of grass near the straw stacks gave 
him a cheery “ Good morning, yellow 
beak! ” as he bounded lightly past. The 
clouds, which had slowly been changing 
from pearly grey to delicate blue, were 
now suffused with every shade of yellow, 
green, purple, gold and pink, and the 
Blackbird raised his voice in song to 
salute the sun as he lifted his crimson 
head above the horizon and smiled on 
the world. Quickly the morning mists 
gathered themselves together, and with 
stealthy haste rolled off the mown hay- 
fields, leaving them jewelled in a dress 
of dazzling splendour. The cows luted 
their heads and wondered when it would 
be milking time; the farmer came out of 
his house and thoughtfully contemplated 
—first the sky, and then tfcie roses climb¬ 
ing over his porch; and Tom, as he 
perched on a tree singing melodiously of 
the joys and pleasures of life, could see 
a perky Robin disputing with a Thrush 
for the possession of a choice grub, and 
could hear the noisy cawing of the 
Rooks as they wended their way to their 
feeding grounds in company with their 
families, the good-humoured twittering 
of the Swallows, the hammering of the 
Nuthatch as he hunted for insects behind 
the bark of a fir tree, the ejaculations 
of the Jay, and the plaintive cry of nest¬ 
ling Greenfinches. A spotted Flycatcher, 
whose family had been hatched two days 
previously, besought him not to sing 
quite so loud for fear of waking the dear 
children; but I fear that, in the exuber¬ 
ance of his spirits, Master Tom paid but 
scant heed to her appeal. “Let them 
learn to make the best of things, and my 
singing, is the best of things; so why 
complain ? ” 
“ Time for breakfast! ” said he at 
last, as the pangs of hunger began to 
predominate over his musical ardour. 
“ I’ll try the garden and not worry about 
those silly worms.” 
His Breakfast Table. 
So he flew across the fields and over 
a wall into an old-fashioned garden, 
where vegetables and flowers grew in 
delightful proximity, where onions and 
cabbages would fain have rubbed 
shoulders with the flowers but for the 
restraining influence of a thick apple 
espalier, where heavy-headed peonies, 
irises purple and irises white, tall lupins, 
open-eyed sweet williams, and quaint 
heartsease jostled one another in sweet 
confusion. He stopped for a moraen; to 
take a sniff at the herb garden, a thick, 
soft carpet of golden thyme, sweet mar¬ 
joram, mint and basil, then hopped on 
to the rows of early peas, where he 
espied a wicked Hawfinch tearing open 
pod after pod with his silvery beak. 
“Morning!” chirped Tom. “Peas 
looking up, eh? Can’t see much in 
