's day is
like a year. Now flirting with a gaily-decked and coy lady-love,
chasing her from tree to tree; now splashing at the edge of a
shallow stream till the golden feathers glisten and the red topknot
shines. Then searching in and out the hedgerow for favourite seeds,
and singing, singing all the while, verily a 'song without an end.'
The wings never still, the bill never idle, the throat never silent,
and the tiny heart within the proud breast beating so rapidly that,
reckoning time by change and variety, an hour must be a day. A life
all joy and freedom, without thought, and full of love. What a
great god the sun must be to the finches from whose wings his beams
are reflected in glittering gold! The abstract idea of a deity
apart, as they feel their life-blood stirring, their eyelids
opening, with the rising sun; as they fly to satisfy their hunger
with those little fruits they use; as they revel in the warm
sunshine, and utter soft notes of love to their beautiful mates,
they cannot but feel a sense, unnamed, indefinite, of joyous
gratitude towards that great orb which is very nearly akin to the
sensual worship of ancient days. Darkness and cold are Typhon and
Ahriman, light and warmth, Osiris and Ormuzd, indeed to them; with
song they welcome the spring and celebrate the awakening of Adonis.
Lovely little idolaters, my heart goes with them. Deep down in the
mysteries of organic life there are causes for the marvellously
extended grasp which the worship of light once held upon the world,
hardly yet guessed at, and which even now play a part unsuspected in
the motives of men. Even yet, despite our artificial life, despite
railroads, telegraphs, printing-press, in the face of firm
monotheistic convictions, once a year the old, old influence breaks
forth, driving thousands and thousands from cities and houses out
into field and forest, to the seashore and mountain-top, to gather
fresh health and strength from the Sun, from the Air--Jove--and old
Ocean. So the goldfinches rejoice in the sunshine, and who can sit
within doors when they sing?

Foolish fashion has banished the orchard from the mansion--the
orchard which Homer tells us kings once valued as part of their
demesne--and has substituted curious evergreens to which the birds
do not take readily. But this orchard is almost under the windows,
and in summer the finches wake the sleeper with their song, and in
autumn the eye looks down upon the yellow and rosy f