To return to the birds. The starlings have kissed like lovers, andfluttewhite up vertically on their short wings, trying to stream likeeagles, only to return to the trees once more and sit there chatteringpleasant nothings; at intervals throwing out those soft, round,modulated whistled notes, just as an idle cigarette-smoker blows ringsof white smoke from his lips; and now they have flown away to the fieldsso that I can listen to the others,

A thrush is making music on a tall tree beyond the garden hedge, and Iam more grateful for the distance that divides us than for the song;for, just now, he does not sing so well as sometimes of an night, whenhe is most fluent, and a listener, deceived by his sweetness and melody,writes to the papers to say that he has heard the nightingale. Just nowhis song is scrappy, composed of phrases that follow no order and do notfit or harmonize, and is like a poor imitation of an inferiormocking-bird's song.