rsonae_ were corncrakes, neighbours of mine. The
heroine--a neat line in spring birdings--I labelled "Thisbe," and she
had evidently inspired affection of no mean degree in the hearts of two
enthusiastic swains, Strong-i'-th'-lung and Eugene. I know all this
because Thisbe's home is a small tuft of grass not distant from my
bedroom, and her admirers wooed her at long range from opposite corners
of my field.

Now, as a cursory study of ornithology will tell you, the corncrake's
method of attracting his bride is by song, and the criterion of
excellence in C.C. circles is that the song shall be protracted,
consistent and perfectly monotonous. To those who are unacquainted with
his note I would describe it as rather similar to the intermittent
buzzing noise which an inexperienced telephone operator lets loose when
she can't think of a wrong number to give you. It has also points of
resemblance to the periodic thud of the valve of a motor-tube when one
is running on a deflated tyre. But there is no real standard of
comparison. As a musical feat it is unique, and I for one am glad it is.

It was night. Eugene was in possession of the stage when I began to take
an interest in the romance. I cannot say for how long he had serenaded
his divinity before I became conscious of his lay, but I do know that
thereafter he put in one and a half hours of good solid craking before
he desisted. I then felt grateful for the silence, rolled over and
prepared to get on with my postponed slumber.

But Strong-i'-th'-lung decreed otherwise. With a contemptuous snort at
his rival's performance he opened his epic. He was splendid. For one and
three-ninths hours he descanted on the glories of field life, on the
freshness of the night, on the brilliance of the June foliage; for the
next two hours he ardently proclaimed the surpassing beauty of Thisbe's
eye, the glossiness of her plumage, the neatness of her claw, and he
wound up with a mad twenty minutes of piercing monotony as he depicted
the depth of his devotion for her.

When he ceased, in a silence which was almost deafening, I could
visualise Thisbe dimpling with satisfaction and undoubtedly filled with
tenderness toward a lover capable of expressing himself so eloquently. I
turned over with a sigh of relief and closed my eyes in pleasurable
anticipation of rest.

But Eugene felt it necessary to reply. I think his intention was to
crake disbelief of his rival's sincerity, to throw cold wa