Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB
[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small]

BIRDS often choose strange nesting-places. Instances are not very rare of tomtits building in letter-boxes, pumps, and such-like erections which are in constant use. Only the other day I read that a robin's nest was found in the pocket of a labourer's coat which had been hanging up in an outbuilding for some time. To the credit of the owner of the coat, the birds were

allowed to hatch their eggs and bring up their young. Thrushes often build their large and conspicuous nests in what would appear to be anything but safe places. Last spring I saw a wagtail's nest built under the sill of a bay window of a public-house, just outside a room where noisy dances were often carried on, and above the entrance to a skittle alley. Not only was the wagtail so fearless, but a cuckoo also laid her egg in the nest, and the young cuckoo was hatched, and of course looked at many times a day by curious eyes.

Perhaps the strangest nesting-place chosen by any bird is that depicted in the sketch at the top of this article. A human skull, a stray from a neglected private museum, was lying in some out-of-the-way corner in a garden, and a wren built her nest in it. The skull is in the possession of my friend Harcourt, who made the sketch from it.

What a subject this presents to moralize upon! The head that once was the birthplace of so many thoughts, to be now the birthplace of innocent little birds. The head that once felt so many hopes and fears, so many anxieties and troubles, to again have within it, in the persons of the wrens, the joys and cares of a family. Just imagine the contrast between then and now. Did the man who owned that head ever think, as he trod the pavement in all the vigour of life, of the

[merged small][ocr errors]

ultimate fate of his headpiece-to be the nursery of a bird. Faugh! it makes one shudder to think of. One is used to the idea of worms and corruption and decay, but not to the thought that one's head should be so used. It is worse than to be made a skeleton of and hung up in a museum for the advancement of science.

The sketch is an exact delineation of the position of the skull and the nest, and shows how the bird entered. I forget how many eggs were laid, but it was rather more than the usual number.

XXI.

HARVEST-TIME

THE welcome warmth of the summer sun has yellowed the waving corn,

And over a golden billowy sea the south wind greets

the morn;

Wealth and plenty all over the land have fallen in gentle rain,

And the breezes murmur their requiems soft o'er the sheeny waves of grain.

In the healthful life of the early dawn the reapers go forth to mow;

Before the sweep of the long scythe blade the sorrowing ears lie low.

A sigh and a moan go over the fields like to the 'softened roar

Of the saddening voice of the distant waves that surge on the lonely shore.

The noontide comes with its glaring heat, and the earth lies breathless and still;

The breeze has fallen, a haze has risen, that blots out valley and hill;

The birds in the wood have ceased their song, the sleepy murmur of bees

Is the only sound we hear in the heat, amidst the motionless trees.

The evening nears, and the weary team is toiling adown the lane

Where arching hazels seem whispering words of mystery to the grain.

A mellowing light falls over all from the fast westering

sun,

And silent thanks are given to God as the long day's work is done.

Now all the valley is filled with mist, an ocean with island trees,

And queenly and clear the harvest moon looks down on shadowy seas

With holy light and a holy calm, and across the gazer's

soul

Glad thoughts of the harvest-time of Life in long procession roll.

« AnteriorContinuar »