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BIRD-LIFE. 
or less distinct, one of which I will reproduce for the 
benefit of my readers. 
It is spring,-—happy spring ! The Wood Queest cooes 
out its tale of love, and the Blackcock is “ drumming” 
in the forest glade. My dear father has invited me to 
accompany him to his old friend, the forester, who has a 
hiding-hut knocked together near the “playing-place” 
of the black game. On we tramp, with merry hearts and 
light footsteps, over hill and dale, from one village to 
another, until we reach the forester’s solitary abode. 
The evening is passed—too quickly perhaps—in relating 
tales and yarns of forest life, for we must early to rest. A 
few hours later our host stands fully accoutred at the 
foot of my couch to wake me. It is a splendidly clear 
morning, the stars are still shining brightly overhead, 
though the coming sun already announces his appearance, 
for the gray dawn is rising in the east. We walk with 
rapid steps towards the forest,—sleep and fatigue are 
alike forgotten, banished as they are by the fresh, cool 
air, the living breath of morning fills the lungs and 
imparts vigour to the limbs. At length we see the forest 
extended before us, silent and dark,—it still preserves 
the aspect of night; and yet its tenants have begun 
their thrilling poetry: the Nightingale awakens the 
still sleeping tenants of the wood; Rock Redstart and 
Redbreast, have, however, been awake some time, though 
we did not hear them; the Cuckoo now answers the call, 
showing that it has thrown off the drowsy god, and is 
joined by the Missel Thrush, who whets its beak and 
bursts out with merry roundelay; the Blackbird’s rich 
tones render homage to the shimmering dawn, while 
the little Robin’s soft ditty is heard amongst them all. 
The voices increase in number every minute: Hedge 
