34 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
the uncommunicative peace of summer. One wonders 
whether foreign wild birds can be such impassioned 
devotees of the bath as these our garden guests, or if it 
is merely the imperishable British acharnement for the 
tub that makes my broad round fountain-basin as popu¬ 
lous and brightly voluble as a modish Kur in the height 
of its season. Even the heinous sparrows are positively 
avid of ablutions, although it must be confessed that 
they look not a whit the less dingy for all their diligent 
splashing. They are very welcome to the hospitalities 
of the fountain despite my feud with them; but it is 
when I come upon them in dry weather wallowing in 
my flower-beds—for nothing less will serve them as sites 
for their dust-baths—and mark the unsightly hollows 
and dunes which disfigure my parterres that the old 
bitterness is renewed. 
It is full soon for the cuckoo as yet: rarely, now and 
again, you may hear his phantom note floating up from 
the deeper copses; but the wood-pigeons that are nest¬ 
ing in the tall trees of the nearest coppice are seldom 
silent, so that it is well for me that I am not of those 
who hold their sweetly grievous moan “ an exquisite 
style from which to refrain.” 
The chaffinch is still somewhat chary of his pure 
rippling cadence; but he practises sometimes, and at 
every fresh essay it draws nearer its own crystalline per¬ 
fection. Why, I am moved to marvel, have the poets 
delighted to honour so many less distinguished singers 
while this charming melodist remains unsung? The 
very spirit of spring is in his throat; and if airy blossoms 
of pear and cherry could dematerialise into song, then 
