heart-throbs, all our hopes lie in this opened bud.  Let not the eyes grow dim, look not back but forward; the soul must uphold itself like the sun.  Let us labour to make the heart grow larger as we become older, as the spreading oak gives more shelter.  That we could but take to the soul some of the greatness and the beauty of the summer!

Still the pageant moves.  The song-talk of the finches rises and sinks like the tinkle of a waterfall.  The greenfinches have been by me all the while.  A bullfinch pipes now and then further up the hedge where the brambles and thorns are thickest.  Boldest of birds to look at, he is always in hiding.  The shrill tone of a goldfinch came just now from the ash branches, but he has gone on.  Every four or five minutes a chaffinch sings close by, and another fills the interval near the gateway.  There are linnets somewhere, but I cannot from the old apple tree fix their exact place.  Thrushes have sung and ceased; they will begin again in ten minutes.  The blackbirds do not cease; the note uttered by a blackbird in the oak yonder before it can drop is taken up by a second near the top of the field, and ere it falls is caught by a third on the left-hand side.  From one of the topmost boughs of an elm there fell the song of a willow warbler for a while; one of the least of birds, he often seeks the highest branches of the highest tree.

A yellowhammer has just flown from a bare branch in the gateway, where he has been perched and singing a full hour.  Presently he will commence again, and as the sun declines will sing him to the horizon, and then again sing till nearly dusk.  The yellowhammer is almost the longest of all the singers; he sits and sits and has no inclination to move.  In the spring he sings, in the summer he sings, and he continues when the last sheaves are being carried from the wheat field.  The redstart yonder has given forth a few notes, the whitethroat flings himself into the air at short intervals and chatters, the shrike calls sharp and determined, faint but shrill calls descend from the swifts in the air.  These descend, but the twittering notes of the swallows do not reach so far—they are too high to-day.  A cuckoo has called by the brook, and now fainter from a greater distance.  That the titlarks are singing I know, but not within hearing from here; a dove, though, is audible, and a chiffchaff has twice passed.  Afar beyond the oaks at the top of the field dark specks ascend from time to time, and after moving in wide circles for a while descend again to the corn.  These must be larks; but their notes are not powerful enough to reach me, though they would were it not for the song in the hedges, the hum of innumerable insects, and the ceaseless “crake, crake” of landrails.  There are at least two landrails in the mowing-grass; one of them just now seemed coming straight towards the apple tree, and I expected in a minute to see the grass move, when the bird turned aside and entered the tufts and wild parsley by the hedge.  Thence the call has come without a moment’s pause, “crake, crake,” till the thick hedge seems filled with it.  Tits have visited the apple tree over my head, a wren has sung in the willow, or rather on a dead branch projecting lower down than the leafy boughs, and a robin across under the elms in the opposite hedge.  Elms are a favourite tree of robins—not the upper branches, but those that grow down the trunk, and are the first to have leaves in spring.

The yellowhammer is the most persistent individually, but I think the blackbirds when listened to are the masters of the fields.  Before one can finish, another begins, like the summer ripples succeeding behind each other, so that the melodious sound merely changes its position.  Now here, now in the corner, then across the field, again in the distant copse, where it seems about to sink, when it rises again almost at hand.  Like a great human artist, the blackbird makes no effort, being fully conscious that his liquid tone cannot be