ight sunshine produces a tint for
which I know no accurate term.

In the tops of the poplars, where most exposed, the leaves stay till the
last, those growing on the trunk below disappearing long before those on
the spire, which bends to every blast. The keys of the hornbeam come
twirling down: the hornbeam and the birch are characteristic trees of
the London landscape--the latter reaches a great height and never loses
its beauty, for when devoid of leaves the feathery spray-like branches
only come into view the more.

The abundant bird life is again demonstrated as the evening approaches.
Along the hedgerows, at the corners of the copses, wherever there is
the least cover, so soon as the sun sinks, the blackbirds announce their
presence by their calls. Their "ching-chinging" sounds everywhere; they
come out on the projecting branches and cry, then fly fifty yards
farther down the hedge, and cry again. During the day they may not have
been noticed, scattered as they were under the bushes, but the dusky
shadows darkening the fields send them to roost, and before finally
retiring, they "ching-ching" to each other.

Then, almost immediately after the sun has gone down, looking to the
south-west the sky seen above the trees (which hide the yellow sunset)
becomes a delicate violet. Soon a speck of light gleams faintly through
it--the merest speck. The first appearance of a star is very beautiful;
the actual moment of first contact as it were of the ray with the eye is
always a surprise, however often you may have enjoyed it, and
notwithstanding that you are aware it will happen. Where there was only
the indefinite violet before, the most intense gaze into which could
discover nothing, suddenly, as if at that moment born, the point of
light arrives.

So glorious is the night that not all London, with its glare and smoke,
can smother the sky; in the midst of the gas, and the roar and the
driving crowd, look up from the pavement, and there, straight above, are
the calm stars. I never forget them, not even in the restless Strand;
they face one coming down the hill of the Haymarket; in Trafalgar
Square, looking towards the high dark structure of the House at
Westminster, the clear bright steel silver of the planet Jupiter shines
unwearied, without sparkle or flicker.

Apart from the grand atmospheric changes caused by a storm wave from the
Atlantic, or an anti-cyclone, London produces its own sky. Put a
shepherd on St. Paul