SPRING.

The days were certainly becoming longer and less cold, the snow had

altogether disappeared, and somehow the sun seemed, to the Blackbird, to

get up earlier and go to bed later. He noticed also, about this time,

that little shaft-like leaves were beginning to peep through the grass,

and that the beech and hazel twigs were swelling into small knobs. He

also felt that there was something different in himself--a change--he

was stronger and happier, and he was seized with an irresistible desire

to sing. The hoarseness which had tried him so much during the winter

months had gone, and his throat was once more clear.

A week passed by, the little knobs on the trees began to open and

discover small, tender leaves, and between the green spear-like shoots

in the grass delicate stems had come up bearing white drooping flowers.

One morning the Blackbird discussed all these changes with the Robin;

and the Rook, who happened to be flying by, was called in to assist at

their council.

"You are surprised at all these changes, my young friends," he said;

"did I not tell you that the seasons never fail? This is the Spring, the

time when everything comes forth to new life. The snow has overspread

the earth and kept it warm all these months. It has covered the bulbs of

the snowdrops, those white flowers that you so greatly admire, friend

Blackbird. It covered them up carefully till the proper time arrived

that they should spring forth. In the same way the buds on the trees

have been wrapped up in their brown coats and kept warm during the

bitter winter weather, and now that the sun is once more shining, the

said brown coats are beginning to drop off, for the little green leaves

are pushing their way into the world of warmth and sunshine. And then,

not the least interesting change, your song has once more returned to

you, the woods are full of sweet music,--ay, and you will see yet

greater wonders, for truly 'the time of the singing of birds is come,

and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.'"

Yes, the Rook was quite right; each day now brought about some fresh

wonder--a few more green leaves, a few more white flowers; and presently

between the snowdrop plants came up the slender green leaves, and the

gold and purple blossoms of the crocus.

About this time, too, the Blackbird noticed that many of his feathered

friends were unusually busy. They seemed to have no time for talk. He

met them flying hither and thither with feathers, small pieces of straw,

or twigs, in their beaks. About this time also, the Blackbird himself

felt a strong desire to have a nest of his own. But how could he build

it by himself? He must find a partner to share his labours--and where

could he find such a partner? He was almost in despair, so at last he

determined to pour out his desire in song, as he perched one morning on

the branch of a budding hawthorn.

He sang his sweetest, his very best, and as the song was borne along on

the bright morning air, and then died away, he became aware of a tender

little note, a faint twitter which came from a branch immediately

beneath him. He looked down, and, lo and behold, there, half concealed

by spreading boughs, was a bird like himself, another Blackbird! This

stranger Blackbird was very attractive-looking, but its plumage was not

quite so bright or black as his own. Its bill, too, was more brown than

yellow, and the orange streaks round the eyes were of a greenish hue.

But notwithstanding these slight differences, the bird which now hopped

down on the grass, and answered his song by if possible a sweeter

warble, was both handsome and winning. The Blackbird was delighted to

have thus found so immediate a response to his petition, and he was very

soon on the grass beside the interesting stranger. On nearer approach he

found that this Blackbird had gentle eyes, and was indeed altogether

very bewitching, so without any hesitation he proposed that they should

build a nest together! His offer was shyly accepted, and then came the

important question, where to build?

The Blackbird was anxious not to be too far from his little friends

Willie and Alice. They had been so kind to him during the winter, that

he would fain see something of them still, and sing them his best

songs, now that he had his voice back again. He had watched them the day

before, as they trotted hand-in-hand along the home-meadow where the

snowdrops and crocuses grew. They had pulled some of the white and

yellow blossoms, and had then stood still to listen to the flute-like

voice of an unseen minstrel. Hand-in-hand they listened; the little boy

with his large brown eyes fixed on the tree from whence came the song,

the little girl with her baby-face uplifted, and one pink finger held up

as much as to say "Hush! hush!"

The song ended, the Blackbird flew out from the shelter of the thick

fir-tree where he had been concealed, and winged his way across the

meadow.

"Our Blackbird!" cried the little boy, exultingly. "Our Blackbird!"

"Dicky! dicky!" shouted the little girl, and then they ran home

delighted.

Yes, this songster was their own particular Blackbird, there was no

doubt about it; and did it not behove him to build his nest as near

their home as he possibly could?

After a short consultation, the pair of Blackbirds set off on an

exploring expedition. First of all they carefully examined the ivy which

covered an old wall near the stables: but they did not consider the

stems of the ivy were quite strong enough to support their nest. They

then looked at some laurel-bushes. But no, these would not do. The

position was too exposed, the branches were much too far apart, their

nest would soon be discovered. Then a very compact little evergreen bush

on the lawn in front of the old house caught their eyes. It was thick

and well grown, every branch was covered, so that a nest could not be

seen by the passers-by. Yes, it was the very place for them, there they

might build in security, and at the same time watch their dear little

friends as they went out and about each day. They carefully inspected

each bough of the said bush, and then, having chosen a spot at the lower

end of a branch where it joined the main stem, they set to work to build

in right good earnest. Small twigs, the waifs and strays of last autumn,

strewed the ground in a little wilderness hard by, and thither the

Blackbirds repaired. Hour after hour both might be seen flitting

between the wood and their chosen bush, with twigs in their yellow

beaks. These they neatly laid on the branch, and then twisted them in

and out, and round and round each other, and then a little moss and a

few soft fibres were added to the harder twigs. The whole fabric soon

began to assume a round, nest-like appearance. It grew fair and shapely,

and the exultant Blackbird paused to pour forth a "clear, mellow, bold

song," as he alighted for a moment on the summit of the Deodor. Then he

and his gentle partner, feeling the "keen demands of appetite,"

determined to go and refresh themselves with some food, and they

repaired to a field not very far off.

There they found the Rook hopping along the freshly-turned furrows,

eagerly picking up the grubs which had been brought to the surface by

the plough-share. The repast did not look very inviting,--those small,

gray grubs! But it was the Rook's favourite food, and the farmers were

not sorry that he and his feathered friends should make a meal of that

same gray grub, for these insects sometimes destroy whole acres of

grass. They bury themselves in the turf, and then it turns brown and

dies. These grubs are mischievous indeed,--after remaining for some

time in the grub state, they change into cockchafers, and even then they

are by no means agreeable visitors.

"Good morning, my friend," said the polite old Rook, "this is a very

pleasant change of food after the hard winter berries, isn't it?"

"Indeed, it is," replied the Blackbird, picking up a grub, "but I like

better feeding near the hedgerows; however, this isn't bad after a hard

day's work."

"Oh, you are house building, are you?" said the Rook. "I hope you have

chosen wisely, and got a good mate to work with you, one who is

industrious and affectionate."

"I think I have," said the Blackbird, with a certain amount of proper

pride; "but you shall judge for yourself," he added, as he presented his

young wife to the Rook. The Rook made a quaint sort of movement with his

head, which, probably among birds, passed for a very grave and polite

bow, and after looking at her for a few moments, he nodded his

approval.

"We are all rather sad to-day," said the Rook, after a few moments of

silence; "we have just lost a very dear friend--indeed a cousin of

mine." The Blackbird looked grave and sympathetic, and the Rook

continued, "He started off yesterday evening to get some supper, and

found his way to some grass-land which was being destroyed by these

mischievous little grubs; he was busy pecking away at them, when all of

a sudden we, who were in a tree hard by, heard a fearful noise, and saw

a great deal of smoke. In another moment, as the smoke cleared away, we

saw my poor cousin lying on the ground. He was quite dead; a young

farmer had shot him with a terrible gun, thinking he was doing mischief;

the stupid fellow little knew what good service my cousin was engaged

upon in eating those grubs. This affair has made us all very sad

indeed," said the Rook, with a little extra huskiness in his voice:

"poor fellow, he had just begun building his first nest, and his young

widow is completely broken hearted."

The Blackbird was very grieved for his friend's trouble, and he felt

rather uncomfortable besides, for it occurred to him that the same

wretched man might very likely shoot him some evening, and then what

would become of _his_ little wife? He therefore prepared to fly off, but

before doing so he said, "I hope we sha'n't be shot also, for these

grubs are easier food to get at than the snails. I got hold of some

snails this very morning, and my bill still aches with the trouble they

gave me. I dropped them on the stones to break them, but one, and he was

a fat fellow too, was so obstinate he would neither come out of his

shell, nor could I crack it. So after ten minutes hard work I was

obliged to leave the rascal. They are stubborn creatures, these snails,"

said the Blackbird, with a groan that expressed his deep sense of

injury.

"_That_ they are," replied the Rook, "and they ought to be taught

better."

A few days more went by and then the nest in the evergreen bush was

completed. The inside walls, which were of mud, had been perhaps the

most difficult part of the building, for although the Blackbirds would

very often start off with a nice piece of soft mud in their beaks, it

would get dry, in a very tiresome manner, before they could reach the

nest, and it then crumbled to pieces as they tried to plaster it on the

twigs. The birds persevered, however, and the mud walls were at last

substantially built, and to crown the whole, a lining of soft grass was

added.

The Blackbird was so over-joyed when the nest was finished, that, after

carefully examining it outside to see that each twig was in its proper

place, and looking at the neatly finished interior, he flew off to the

laurel-bushes by the bay window and sang a song of such surpassing

ecstasy that two little brown heads soon made their appearance at a

bed-room window to listen. The little figures were clothed in long white

night-dresses, for they were just going to bed, but they could not miss

such a song. I am sure that if it could have been interpreted it would

have proved to be a chant of joy and praise. The nest was completed, the

home was ready!

That night as long brown lashes sank over soft sleepy eyes the little

heads that belonged to them were still thinking of that jubilant carol,

and about the same time, under the shelter of the ivy leaves, two other

and much smaller heads were full of dreams of the future, of the

newly-built home in the evergreen, and of all that new home might mean.

Some two days after this the Blackbird happened to be perched on the

branch of a dark fir-tree. His young mate had been for some time sitting

steadily on the nest in the evergreen bush. To amuse her he had sung

some of his sweetest songs. He could not see her very distinctly through

the thick branches, so he thought he would just go and have a look at

her. He flew to the bush, and there was a sight which, for a moment,

made him feel almost breathless. His mate was perched on the bough above

the nest, but what was that in the nest below?

Down in its very centre lay a round, smooth, pale blue object, shaded

with light green, and marked at one end with reddish brown spots. There

it lay securely, snugly; and it looked very fresh and beautiful. The

Blackbird hopped nearer. What could it be? Was it really an egg? Yes, it

was indeed an egg! His delight was so great that he could only express

it in song, and the deep flute-like notes sounded from the little bush

quite late into the twilight of that evening.

A few more days saw four eggs added to the first. Yes, five little blue

balls now lay side by side. As his industrious little wife flew off to

get supper the evening that the last egg was laid, the happy Blackbird

perched himself on the very top of the bush, to guard the nest and sing

his evening song. He had not been there very long when he heard a door

bang, and presently from under the old porch came the dear little couple

he loved so well, the little one in her white frock and white hat, the

other in his sailor's suit.

They ran together across the grass, but stopped suddenly as they heard

the Blackbird's note, and the Blackbird as suddenly ceased singing, for

how terrible would it be if they should discover his nest and all his

treasures!

The sharp eyes of the little boy had already espied him, and the little

feet scampered lightly over the ground. The poor Blackbird's heart sank

within him. Nearer, still nearer came the brother and sister, and at

last they stopped close by the bush. The Blackbird rose into the air

with a shrill, scared cry, and then settled again. Would they hurt him?

Could they be so cruel as to rob him of his treasures?

"He _must_ have a nest somewhere," said the little boy, as he peeped

cautiously into the bush.

What was that dark thing on the bough above? The little fellow clapped

his hands, wild with excitement. "A nest! a nest!" he cried. The little

girl fairly danced with delight. Then the boy slowly put out his hand

and caught the bough, and carefully bent it towards him. All this time

two black eyes were watching with intense anxiety from the tree-top.

Would the eggs fall out and be broken? would the nest be robbed?

"One, two, three, four, five," counted the little boy slowly, while a

poor palpitating heart counted each moment. How long those moments

seemed!

The little boy still held the bough in his grasp, the nest was on one

side, he stretched out his eager little hand.

The Blackbird scarcely breathed. The boy's fingers were over the nest;

they nearly closed on one of the eggs. Then he suddenly drew back, "No,

no, Alice," he said, "Mamma says I must never rob the poor birds. We

won't rob our own Blackbird."

Then the branch was slowly released and returned to its place, and the

little fellow, who with no small amount of self-denial had conquered the

intense desire to take the eggs, stood still gazing at the bush. Little

Miss Alice now made signs that she wished to be lifted up to see into

the nest, and with no small difficulty her sturdy young brother obliged

her.

"Look, Alice, pretty eggs; but we mustn't touch, and we mustn't tell any

one."

At that moment the front door of the old manor house again opened, and

this time a voice called, "Master Willie, Miss Alice, wherever have you

got to?"

At hearing this sudden appeal, Willie dropped his little sister, both

because her weight was rather more than he could well support, and

because he was afraid that "Nanny" might find out what they were doing.

However, as Alice fell on the grass she was not hurt. Willie quickly

helped her up, and, as they ran towards the house, the Blackbird heard

Willie say, "We won't tell any one about our nest, will we? It's a great

secret."

It was some time before the poor bird recovered from his terrible

fright. His little heart beat very fast, and when his wife returned, and

he told her all about the children's visit, it was with bated and

often-interrupted breath.

That night his sleep was disturbed by very unpleasant dreams. He had

visions of numbers of little boys who kept coming to look at his nest,

and who pulled the bough down to the ground. Then he saw the eggs

rolling out slowly one after the other on to the lawn. And then he would

wake with a start to find that after all it was only a dream, and would

see the bright moonlight shining on the dewy grass, and hear afar off

the hoarse trill of the night-jar, or the boding screech of the great

white owl.

All that night he could not help feeling nervous, and he was very glad

indeed when the first streaks of dawn became visible in the far east. It

was a bright spring morning, and as he and his sprightly little wife

hopped nimbly about on the daisy-spangled lawn, ere the dew had

disappeared from the little pink and white flowers, and as they here and

there picked up a worm or an insect, he felt wonderfully refreshed,

indeed by the time he had taken his morning bath, and had plumed his

feathers, he was quite himself again.

The thirteen days which now followed were very important ones; for,

during that time, our Blackbird's patient young wife sat almost

uninterruptedly upon her nest. She stole away for a few moments to the

neighbouring hedgerows for breakfast or dinner; but she was never happy

till she was back again to her precious charge.

It was at this time that the Blackbird poured forth his very best music.

He had never sung so many nor such varied songs before; now that his

partner could not go about with him, he had so much to tell her of his

rambles and of course he told it all in song.

He did not always perch on their own bush. He was afraid that if he did

so he might attract too much attention, but from the bough of any tree

close at hand he cheered her heart with his beautiful melodies.

[Illustration: THE ROBIN'S NEST.]

Then it was that he told his wife of the green hedgerows where the

golden, star-shaped blossoms of the celandine were luxuriant, and where

the shy primroses were just beginning to show their pale heads. He would

sing of the blackthorn whose snowy blooms were then just peeping out,

and of the hawthorn already covered with its tender green leaves. He

told her, and this was a profound secret, of the nest of their good

friend, the Robin, which was very cunningly concealed at the top of the

ivy. It was a soft, cosy little nest, not plastered with mud as

theirs was, but lined with silky hair. The Robin had shown him five

little pale eggs, white spotted with brown, at the bottom of the nest,

half hidden by the soft hair.

The Blackbird had also come across a most remarkable nest, that of the

golden-crested wren. "My old friend, the Rook, tells me," said the

Blackbird, "that this wren is the very smallest of our birds. He

certainly is a great beauty with his crown of golden feathers. His nest

is in yonder yew-tree. It seems large for a bird of his size. It is

almost entirely built of moss, and, can you believe it, the wren uses

spider's webs to bind it together! It seemed to be hanging from the

bough, and was so well hidden by another bough, that I did not see it

until I had flown quite into the middle of the tree. The opening in the

nest is so small, I don't believe you could have got even your little

head in; but I had a good peep, and saw its lining of soft warm

feathers, and counted ten of the palest, tiniest eggs you can possibly

imagine."

The following day the Blackbird had other tidings for his wife. He had

been to a stream in the neighbourhood,--the Brawl. Its banks were gay

with marsh marigolds, and while he was hopping and frisking about

there, he had met a very curious-looking bird, a ring-ousel. This

creature was rather shy and had not long arrived from the south, where

he usually spent the winter. He was a pretty fellow, with black plumage

and a white crescent round his throat, and his song was very sweet

indeed. He had few relations in England, for he was what folks call a

rare bird, and the Blackbird was sorry for it, for he thought him both

pretty and attractive.

The following day the Blackbird had a long talk with the Rook. The

latter was perched on an elm, whose leaves were just beginning to burst

forth, and it was there that the Blackbird joined him. Rooks' nests,

made of rough-looking sticks, many of them containing one or more blue

eggs, were to be seen dotted here and there along the avenue of elms,

and the cawing and the gossip, to say nothing of the quarrelling, was

almost deafening. The Blackbird settled on a bough close to the Rook,

and as he did so he noticed some swallows skimming over the lawn far

below them. They were beautiful birds, their blue-black plumage glinted

in the sunshine, and now and then a quick turn displayed their brown

throats and white breasts. They were darting hither and thither, so

rapidly that the eye could hardly follow them, catching the many-winged

insects as they flew by. Then they would suddenly dart off to the

topmost gables of the old mansion, where their compact mud nests could

be plainly seen against the dark gray stones.

"I remember," said the Blackbird, "watching those swallows a long, long

time ago, when I was quite a fledgeling; but I haven't seen one all the

winter. Where can they have been all this time?"

"Oh," replied the Rook, "the swallows are most curious and interesting

creatures. When October comes they assemble from all parts of Great

Britain and then start forth on a long journey across the wide seas to

pass the winter in sunnier and warmer countries. When April returns they

all come back again,--from the palms of Africa, over the olives of Italy

and the oaks of Spain--back across the seas they come to us. It is here

that they build their nests and rear their young ones, but only to fly

away again in the autumn. Truly, these swallows are wonderful

travellers."

"How nice it must be to spend the winter in a warm, sunny place,"

remarked the Blackbird, enviously.

"Well, I don't know," retorted the Rook; "think of the long, long

journey! Think of the miles and miles of ocean to be crossed, think of

the weary wings, think of the poor breathless birds. They often perch to

rest a while on the passing ships, and they often get knocked down and

killed. Then again, just think how they must suffer from the cold here

in England, after the warm climates they have wintered in. No, depend

upon it," said the Rook, shaking his head wisely, "it's far better to

spend the winter here at home and get healthy and hardy. There are many

nights when you and I are warm and comfortable that these unhappy

swallows are crouched shivering under the eaves. In my humble opinion

there's nothing like England, dear old England, for English birds."

You see this old Rook was very patriotic, and of course a great Tory to

boot. He disliked change of every sort and kind. He, and his ancestors

before him, had built in these same elm-trees, since the first gray

stone of the old mansion had been laid. From these same trees, from

generation to generation, they had watched the sun rise and set during

the stormy days of winter and the sunny days of summer. They had noted

the seasons as they came and went, enjoying the fruits and the joys of

each, and when any rook was cut off by death, it was generally old age

that killed him,--unless it were that occasionally a youngster, more

enterprising than prudent, would lean out of his nest to see the world

around him, and what was going on there, and then a sudden rush of his

small body through the air, and a thud at the foot of the tree, would

tell of the premature decease of a promising rooklet. Yes, "Old England

for ever!" was still the watchword of the rooks.

"Certainly it is very delightful just now," said the Blackbird, looking

round him. Delicate young leaves were bursting forth on every side;

primroses, anemones, and even a few early cowslips were peering through

the grass below, the sun was shining, and the woods were filled with a

chorus of song.

"Yes indeed," said the Rook solemnly "'the stork in the heavens knoweth

her appointed time, and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow

observe the time of their coming.'"

This conversation, and all his other talks and small adventures, were

faithfully reported to the home-tied wife. His voice beguiled the many

weary hours during which she patiently sat on her nest.

It was thus that matters went on until towards the end of the thirteenth

day, when certain mysterious sounds were heard to proceed from the nest,

faint peckings, which would cease and then begin again. One day, while

his wife was taking her mid-day meal, the Blackbird hopped close to the

nest, and put his head over the side, and as he watched and listened, lo

and behold, through a slight crack in the blue shell of one of the eggs

peeped a very tiny beak!

It was very marvellous! This beak moved backwards and forwards, and in

and out, and gradually, the crack becoming larger, a small featherless

head emerged. Yes, so it was; and before sunset the following day five

callow little birds lay huddled together in the nest, and although they

were his own sons and daughters, it must be confessed that the Blackbird

could not help thinking them remarkably ugly. They had very few feathers

on their poor naked little bodies, their heads appeared to be of an

enormous and disproportionate size,--and then, their mouths!

As they squatted in the nest with their five mouths opened to their

widest, displaying five red throats, the Blackbird thought that never

before in all his long life had he seen anything so frightful. How such

enormous creatures had ever come out of those five pretty little eggs he

could not imagine. However, he had no time for reflection, for what on

earth did those eager little monsters mean by gaping at him like that?

At last it occurred to him that they might be hungry, and thereupon he

and his wife set off to pick up small worms and insects for them. The

Blackbird fancied that being so very young they would require delicate

feeding, but this proved to be an entire mistake. Never before had he

thought it possible that such small bodies could dispose of so much

food. From morning to night, and almost from night to morning, he and

his poor wife were to be seen flying backwards and forwards conveying

provisions to the nest.

However, none of the brood ever seemed to be satisfied. Five mouths

always opened wide when the Blackbird returned, although he could only

feed one at a time, and he never, for the life of him, could remember

which he had fed last.

Worms, grubs, caterpillars, insects, all found their way to the little

gaping mouths,--nothing came amiss, until the Blackbird felt that if it

went on much longer there would be no insects left in the whole country,

and that his young ones would certainly die of indigestion. However, the

little birds flourished, and grew apace, and each night as the Blackbird

drew in his wings for a few short hours of rest, he wondered when the

brood would be old enough to feed themselves, for he looked forward, and

with no small longing, to that time of rest.