e have seen far off,
standing in the shallows, apparently meditating on the vanity of earthly
affairs, slowly and laboriously takes to flight. He cannot rise for the
matter of a stone's-throw, and the heavy flaps of his labouring wings
resound in the still morning. There is no warier bird than the heron
when he gets a fair field. Sometimes it is possible to come upon him by
chance, and then his terror and instant affright cause him to lose his
head, and he blunders helplessly hither and thither, as often into the
jaws of danger as out of it.

Did you see that flash of blue? It was the patch of blue sky on a jay's
wing. They call it a "jay piet" hereabouts. But the keepers kill off
every one for the sake of a pheasant's egg or two. An old and
experienced gamekeeper is the worst of hanging judges. To be tried by
him is to be condemned. As Mr. Lockwood Kipling says: "He looks at
nature along the barrel of a gun Which is false perspective."

_Full Chorus_.

In the opener glades of the woods the wild hyacinths lie in the hollows,
in wreaths and festoons of smoke as blue as peat-reek. As we walk
through them the dew in their bells swishes pleasantly about our ankles,
and even those we have trodden upon rise up after we have passed, so
thick do they grow and so full are they of the strength of the morning.
Now it is full chorus. Every instrument of the bird orchestra is taking
its part. The flute of the blackbird is mellow with much pecking of
winter-ripened apples. He winds his song artlessly along, like a _prima
donna_ singing to amuse herself when no one is by. Suddenly a rival with
shining black coat and noble orange bill appears, and starts an
opposition song on the top of the next larch. Instantly the easy
nonchalance of song is overpowered in the torrent of iterated melody.
The throats are strained to the uttermost, and the singers throw their
whole souls into the music. A thrush turns up to see what is the matter,
and, after a little pause for a scornful consideration of the folly of
the black coats, he cleaves the modulated harmony of their emulation
with the silver trumpet of his song. The ringing notes rise triumphant,
a clarion among the flutes.

_The Butcher's Boy of the Woods_.

The concert continues, and waxes more and more frenzied. Sudden as a
bolt from heaven a wild duck and his mate crash past through the leaves,
like quick rifle shots cutting through brushwood. They end their sharp,
breathless rus