IM FRUHLINGSGARTEN 
35 
surely their music would be like to his. You are moved, 
as you listen, to remembrance of that favourite of the 
Good People, from whose speaking lips fell showers of 
diamonds, roses, and pearls. The tits are repeating their 
tuneful trivialities over and over, with many variations, 
as they glance from bough to bough among the blossom- 
buds, a blithe and dainty little folk indeed; delightfully 
arrayed, as ever, in subtle tints of green and blue and 
yellow, with the sharp emphasis of jaunty black velvet 
cap and cravat giving point to the scheme. Those 
hearty vulgarians, the starlings, are here in force, too, 
impudently glossy in their greenish-black coats, the 
which it is hard to believe cannot be really a size too 
small for their pursy, waddling little figures. The 
braggarts are especially important just now, for they are 
setting up house again—building you could scarcely call 
it—in their inevitable spring quarters in those old apple- 
trees of the orchard that offer friendly accommodation 
of hollows sufficiently inconspicuous from the starling 
point of view. They are all vastly loquacious, and some 
of them imagine they can sing: there is one tubby 
sentimentalist among their number who is for ever try¬ 
ing at flagrant imitations of blackbird and thrush. His 
performances do infinite credit alike to his enterprise 
and taste, but they sound sadly out of tune. 
It seems to me this year as though the thrush were 
less lavish than his wont of his heavenly harmonies ; but, 
perhaps, he is only waiting until the blackbird has ex¬ 
hausted his own full flood of song, for these two great 
singers will seldom flute together. And the blackbird is 
singing—singing like a voice in a dream. He is poised 
