Nature is freshest with the dew of her beauty-sleep upon her.  The copses are astir, and the rooks on the tops of the tall trees have begun the work of the day.  They rise to a great height, and drift with the light wind towards their feeding-grounds by the river.  Over the hedge flashes a snipe, rising like a brown bomb-shell from between our feet, and sending the heart into the mouth.  The heron, which we have seen far off, standing in the shallows, apparently meditating on the vanity of earthly affairs, slowly and laboriously takes to flight.  He cannot rise for the matter of a stone’s-throw, and the heavy flaps of his labouring wings resound in the still morning.  There is no warier bird than the heron when he gets a fair field.  Sometimes it is possible to come upon him by chance, and then his terror and instant affright cause him to lose his head, and he blunders helplessly hither and thither, as often into the jaws of danger as out of it.

Did you see that flash of blue?  It was the patch of blue sky on a jay’s wing.  They call it a “jay piet” hereabouts.  But the keepers kill off every one for the sake of a pheasant’s egg or two.  An old and experienced gamekeeper is the worst of hanging judges.  To be tried by him is to be condemned.  As Mr. Lockwood Kipling says:  “He looks at nature along the barrel of a gun Which is false perspective.”

Full Chorus.

In the opener glades of the woods the wild hyacinths lie in the hollows, in wreaths and festoons of smoke as blue as peat-reek.  As we walk through them the dew in their bells swishes pleasantly about our ankles, and even those we have trodden upon rise up after we have passed, so thick do they grow and so full are they of the strength of the morning.  Now it is full chorus.  Every instrument of the bird orchestra is taking its part.  The flute of the blackbird is mellow with much pecking of winter-ripened apples.  He winds his song artlessly along, like a prima donna singing to amuse herself when no one is by.  Suddenly a rival with shining black coat and noble orange bill appears, and starts an opposition song on the top of the next larch.  Instantly the easy nonchalance of song is overpowered in the torrent of iterated melody.  The throats are strained to the uttermost, and the singers throw their whole souls into the music.  A thrush turns up to see what is the matter, and, after a little pause for a scornful consideration of the folly of the black coats, he cleaves the modulated harmony of their emulation with the silver trumpet of his song.  The ringing notes rise triumphant, a clarion among the flutes.

The Butcher’s Boy of the Woods.