form of Blackie, streaking,
phantom-like, through the mist from the trench out in the field to the
summer-house in the garden. Here, mounted upon the very top, he stood
for a moment, as one clearing his throat before blowing a bugle, and
then, full, rich, deep, and flute-like, he lazily gave out the first
bars of his song. Instantly, almost as if it had been a signal, a
great tit-mouse sang out, "Tzur ping-ping! tzur ping-ping!" in
metallic, ringing notes; a thrush struck in with his brassy, clarion
challenge, thrush after thrush taking it up, till, with the clear
warble of robin and higher, squeaking notes of hedge-sparrow and wren
joining in, the wonderful first bars of the Dawn Hymn of the birds
rolled away over the fields to the faraway woods, and beyond.

Blackie sang on for a bit, in spite of the fact that people said that
it was not considered "the thing" for a blackbird with such domestic
responsibilities to sing. And two other blackbirds helped him to break
the man-made rule.

As a matter of fact, I fancy he was not taking chances upon the ground
while the mist hung to cover late night prowlers, for as soon as the
gay and gaudy chaffinches had stuck themselves up in the limes and the
sycamores, and started their own smashing idea of song, he was down
upon the lawn giving the early worm a bad time.

Then it was that he heard a rumpus that shot him erect, and sent his
extraordinarily conspicuous orange dagger of a beak darting from side
to side in that jerky way of listening that many birds affect.

"Twet-twet-et-et-et! twet! twet-twet-twet-et-et-twet!" came the
unmistakable voice of one in a temper, scolding loudly. And he knew
that scold--had heard it before, by Jove! And who should know it if
not he, since it was the voice of his wife?

Perhaps he heaved a sigh as he rose from the deliciously cool, wet
lawn--where it was necessary to take long, high hops if you wanted to
avoid getting drenched--and winged his way towards the riot. His wife
was calling him, and it came from the other side of the garden, _her_
side, behind the house. Perhaps it was a cat, or a rat, or something.
Anything, almost, would set her on like that if experience, plus the
experience of blackbirds for hundreds of generations working blindly in
her brain--and not the experience of books--had taught her that the
precise creature whom she saw was a danger and a menace to young
blackbirds.

All the same, when Blackie arrived he