THE REDWING 
melody. Once, twice he chirped the low 
go-to-roost of the redwing but no other sound 
would come. His chords were rusty he had 
forgotten how to sing. Londub went over 
his chant again, more certainly. He sang of 
warm sou'-westers, and of the flighting times 
when the birds fly north on the back of the 
spring hail storms. Shacaim heard that also. 
He straightened himself and tried again. Had 
he been able to stand where that blackbird 
stood, it might have been easier even a sky- 
lark sings brokenly from the ground never- 
theless the second trial was more successful. 
His notes were low, but they were clear. 
Spideogue, prospecting among the cabbages, 
cocked his head on one side. This song was 
of unknown quality. The notes were soft, 
almost guttural, but the singer warbled on, 
enraptured, improvising chirps and turns, quite 
regardless that there were no ears to understand 
his music. 
The sun went down, and the throstle descended 
for the night. It was long past Shacaim's 
roosting-time, but the evening was so beautiful 
that he stayed on and on, preening his orange 
flanks, and chirping to himself. He was so 
taken up with his new-born gift of melody, 
that he never saw a pair of keen eyes watch- 
ing him from under a grass tuft. However, 
