It was, I think, the first week in May-long before summer, the summer of the Calendar-is supposed to begin. The day was a babe just born, smiling in the newly risen sun, and with the dews of sleep still upon her eyelids. From the garden, through the widely open window, came a conglomeration of delicious sounds that first awoke me and then charmed me from my pillow to lean out of the casement and listen and look. In the elm-tree that shades the lawn to the left, seated upon a bough in a place where he could easily be seen, the Master Thrush sat and sang; ye gods! how he sang. No one listened, excepting, of course, myself and, doubtless, his patient wife sitting somewhere (I know where) upon her eggs. A little farther on, upon an apple-tree overlooking the strawberry beds a favorite haunt of his sat the Master Blackbird-an old fellow whom I have known intimately for years-trolling out a kind of jovial drinking song. I listen to him very attentively, because in the first place I love the old fellow's song more than any-it is so deliciously merry and convincing, so independent of set rules and of form, so obviously the irresistible outcome of a feeling of jollity and contentment; and in the second place because the old rascal sings so seldom; perhaps he is too well fed, perhaps he

is getting old, maybe he is simply lazy: at any rate he sings so rarely, withal so perfectly, that when he does condescend to lift up his voice it would be a sin not to listen.

In other apple-trees, on the roof of the house, everywhere, starlings are twittering, cackling, whistling after their manner. They are a community and prefer to be known as a community; no one of them seems anxious to individualize himself as the Master Starling; they go together and sing together-making a poor display of music at the best; for a beaky, insignificant little song is theirs, barring one delicious whistle, though they are terribly in earnest over it, and doubtless their ladies think it the sweetest of all music.

In the ivy and from the gutter-pipes, and everywhere where one of them can get a footing, sparrows are twittering, apparently asking one another questions and tarrying not for the answers. Evidently song of some kind is de rigeur at this moment of the young day, and every bird in the garden must sit and sing regardless of his neighbors; no one listens-all sing; there is a solid structure of sound between my window and the garden wall, a hundred odd yards away. To the uninitiated it might appear to be a shapeless mass of din, more or less pleasant,

according to taste; but for those who know, in the midst of the hubbub certain voices stand out. The Master Thrush-the Master Blackbird-the belligerent little chaffinch who sits throned in the laburnum yonder; these and a few others are easily distinguishable. As for the smaller singers, the chorus, the little thin voices of the hedgesparrow, the wren and others, where are they? Singing like anything, be sure, and adding to the general effect, but certainly not individually distinguishable. There are many whose ears cannot distinguish the high treble of the hedge-sparrow at any time; some have never heard the squeak of the bats at dusk; naturally the minor songsters cannot make themselves heard through the ensemble of the Master Singers at this the hour, par excellence, of song.

Some of these Master Singers will sing at intervals all day, as soloists; perched upon convenient platforms, from which they may throw out their notes to the best advantage for they have not the slightest intention that their music should be wasted-they will pipe lusciously from time to time when most of these singers of little merit are silent; but at this particular hour, when the lately risen sun seems to have awakened all the combative and amorous instincts of the entire feathered tribe, all must sing together -no one has time to listen, excepting, doubtless, the proud pleased mate who at this season of the year considers her partner a very magnificent fellow, and has ears for his song only, be he a singer in alt like the hedge-sparrow, or the possessor of a diapason voice like that of the nightingale. There are discordant notes, however, in this wonderful conglomeration of luscious sounds. The old blackbird has caught sight of his enemy-cat or rival, I know not which-and instantly puts an end to his jovial lllt, in order to fly

screeching and chiding earthwards, or wherever he may have discovered the offender. While he is chasing this intruder and scolding at the top of his voice, the rasping din of his angry scream is the most prominent note in the chorus, spoiling the effect just as one bad voice, if loud enough, will mar the most delicious harmony of a perfect choir.

Then there is that nuisance of a fellow the amorous rook. He, too, thinks he can sing, and must needs choose a tree in my garden from which to show off his voice. His singing is the merest caricature of the art of song. He sits and postures grotesquely; croaks, squawks, and raspy sounds of a nondescript nature follow one another from his throat. Is he a clown, buffooning? Is he intentionally spoiling the effect of this superb music-hour, by intervening thus weirdly with his unwelcome, unmusical utterances? Is he imitating the rest in his own tomfoolish manner, out of spite or jealousy, of malice prepense?

I think not. I imagine that he is in grim earnest. He fancies his singing. He thinks it is quite as good as any other fellow's, and perhaps a little better. It may be there is a lady of his persuasion who believes the same, though I scarcely think so. Being a rook-lady, she is not to be trusted in matters concerning the affections. Quite likely that while he sits grotesquely twisting his absurd black body, and uttering the unconvincing melodies he believes to be so seductive, she has quietly given him the slip, and has gone away to flirt with some other gentleman. When he has finished his song he will discover that he has been deceived, and his singing will suddenly change to frank cawing as he starts with strong wing-flaps, straight across country, to find her.

"I know where you'll be," he screams, as he swiftly skims the

hedgerows, flying low and rapidly. "Off with what's-his-name again. Let him wait till I catch him, and you too, my beauty!"

One is glad that he is gone. He should confine his love-making and his vocal efforts to his own rookery, where -no doubt-his singing is appreciated, and where-be it observed-there may be heard any morning or evening in May such a babel of cackling and cawing and croaking and bubbling and quarrelling and weird love-tones will turn a listener giddy if he sits and listens long enough to it.

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Suddenly, as I lean from the window, drinking in the delicious music, my very soul steeped in luscious sound, every voice ceases. A few odd birds, which had perhaps taken no part in the concert, rise silently from among the strawberry beds and elsewhere and flit swiftly into the sanctuary of hedge or tree.

What has happened? Has the word suddenly gone forth that I am watching-I who ought to be in bed and have no business spying and listening at this hour, as every bird well knows?

No; for I have been at the window for ten minutes, and be sure that there is not a bird in the garden that is not aware of the fact.

What is the matter, then?

The secret is not long withheld from

me.

Into the open air-space between the two large elms, which stand like sentinels one on each side of the lawn, there suddenly sails a merlin; he is flying rather fast because our friend the amorous rook caught sight of him as he swept, on vengeance intent, over the country, and, feeling indignation against the world in general, postponed his revenge in order to spoil the sport of a fellow creature.

"Off you go!" is now the burden of his song as he caws loudly and menacingly behind the merlin's tail-feathers.

"None of your bird-hunting here-keep on the move, please!"

One or two birds of quick flight launch themselves from tree or hedgerow to join in the hustling pursuit: a tiny willow-wren among the rest. Between them they succeed in keeping the detested ogre on the move; while thus hustled along, they know well enough, he cannot poise and stoop; if he were to attempt it, one or more of his pursuers would make a dart at him and spoil his aim; so he flies rapidly out of sight, hoping to shake off his angry, chiding followers. One can imagine him bitterly cursing them, and especially the rook who first called attention to his presence. But for him he might, by this time, have secured a plump garden-fed thrush for breakfast, or something equally luscious.

When he has sailed out of sight and the rook has abandoned the pursuit and turned his thoughts once more towards the legitimate revenge which was his primary motive, and the little birds have returned to tell their friends how they have chased the ogre away, and of the awful language he used when he perceived that his sport had been marred as far as their domain was concerned, the concert quickly reopens. The Master Thrush gives out the introit, and the service begins. One by one the singers take up their cues; in two minutes there is not a bird silent.

As a matter of fact, though one would like to think of this great morning sing-song as a Te Deum, as a Psalm of Praise, and so forth-is one justified in so regarding it? In one sense, yes; in another, no! It is probable that defiance is at the bottom of the music. The male birds challenge one another in song while the female sits apart, listens, compares, and admires. The greater song birds, it is true-the Master Thrush and his peers -seldom come to blows over their vo

Thrush, the Master Blackbird, and so forth, the case is different. Each has established supremacy over a certain district; he has pegged out claims for a sphere of influence, and in that sphere he is supreme. No doubt he has had to support his claim, from time to time, with beak and nail; very probably each season he is obliged to enforce upon the attention of his own sons the unpleasant fact that though he has generously allowed them to be born and brought up within his dominions, they are no longer entitled to wander at large and to conduct their love affairs here, once the mating and singing season has come in. In November last I heard some of these youngsters trying their virgin voices in the Master's preserves; their efforts were quaintly sweet, but tentative and short-lived; an east wind came and discouraged them. Personally I should have thought that an east wind would have added an argument in favor of the mistaken view they had evidently adoptednamely, that it was early spring and time to begin singing-for on this part of the Devonshire coast our spring-joy is dashed with much pain, thanks to the prevalence of these same east winds; but this, their first taste of it, discouraged those young singers. Doubtless when the real singing time begins each season, their father, the Master Thrush, puts up a notice that he is Sir Oracle, and when he opens his mouth, let no bird sing-in his sphere of influence; then follow chasings and chidings-and emigration to the nearest claim that has not yet been pegged out.

If a parent thrush should come upon

one of her offspring a year after it had left the nest, would she know it for her own? I doubt it. At any rate, her affection for the bantlings would not outlast the year.

Thus the Master Thrush, having through the excellence of his art risen above his natural spring-tide instinct to fight, prefers in these times to compete in song rather than with beak and claw for supremacy. His singing is a constant competition. He sings and listens to his rival, far away, maybe, and scarcely audible in the distance, and then sings again. He performs with one ear upon his rival's efforts and the other upon his own; she whom he would charm (sitting in her nest, over there, in the plum-tree) listens to and hears him only; in her ears his song is the perfection of art.

But there are some lesser lights in the world of song, who still sing to defy as well as to captivate; to goad into fury as well as to inspire with soft emotions. There is that pugnacious little rascal the chaffinch, for instance, who is always anxious for a fight; the words of his song are "Will you oblige me by treading upon the tail of my coat?" and if there is another as pugnacious as himself within hearing, it is likely that his longing for a fight will be indulged.

Nevertheless, and in spite of the fact that many of the performers are inspired by motives the reverse of worthy; that the leading idea of most of them is defiance, a desire to go one better than the other fellow, and not a conscious wish to express praise or gratitude for the good things of life, and especially the blessings of a fine spring morning, it is undoubtedly permissible, if we will, to regard the entire chorus of singers as taking part in the great Te Deum which the earth and all that is in it are constantly raising, consciously or unconsciously, to the Supreme Being who is Author

of all. For every beautiful thing is in itself a voice crying aloud in praise to its Maker; whether these birds sing to please their mates, to annoy their rivals, to give vent to their own feelings of delight, or to "show off" to the world in general, the ultimate effect is the same. "Te Deum laudamus," says the luscious blackbird, and "Te Deum laudamus," repeats that grotesque old fellow up in the elm-tree who calls himself "rook," and fancies that he can sing a measure with the best!

A morning or two ago I lay awake before dawn in order to make sure what voice would be the first to make itself heard, whether in the garden or in the marsh below or on the beach beyond.

A certain cock in a distant farmyard, a bird for whom I have no respect and who can surely feel none for himself, was the first living thing to disturb the silence of departing night. After him came the cry of a prowling cat, an animal of intemperate and dissipated habits, who occasionally selects my garden for his nocturnal debauches. I do not count either of these. Apart from them the first to raise his voice was a sea-gull; his tone seemed to tell of the indignation of mighty hunger; he was off landward in search of some early farmer who would do him the favor of turning up a fat worm or so with his plough.

Immediately following the gull, a wild duck quacked out his greeting to the coming day. He had arrived at dusk, with a party, at the pond down below in the marsh and was announcing his intention to begin breakfast. There are several of his friends there now--I can see them as I lean out of the window-feeding and chasing one another among the reeds. By the time the early milkman is abroad with his cans, or any other sound of human life comes to fill the air with terror, the little company will be far enough away

in some quiet spot known to them where distressing matters such as men and women and noisy children are not to be seen and heard and there is Peace.

Soon after the awaking of the ducks the Master Blackbird began to "trim his jetty wing:" he hardly waited to shake the sleep-dust from his eyes before he trolled out his first jolly, jo cund notes, giving a merry send-off to the general chorus of the garden, which soon got to work once he had begun, and in half an hour was hard at it, as now at this moment-only listen what a solid mass of sweet sounds it is; is there anything in music to equal it? A magnificent band playing a Beethoven symphony, quotha? perhaps, my dear sir, and perhaps not. I am not competent to judge: it is a question that depends for answer upon the temperament of the hearer. I love both the one and the other, but I know which I would retain if I were obliged to hold to the one and abandon the other.

Close to my ear there is a kind of continuous pedal-bass going on-it is the hum of half a hundred bees busily inspecting the roses and other creeping growths that cover the walls of the house. I think I know where these

diligent fellows come from. They have travelled nearly a mile to pay us a visit here, and indeed they are most welcome. Also, I should say this garden must be a profitable hunting ground for them.

Perhaps it is a return call for a visit I paid these bees a short while since. It was my first introduction, under the ægis of their personal conductor, to their private domain and storehouses, and I paid it-I must admit-with some trepidation. My friend was used to the little creatures and they to him. "I am going to clean out a hive," he said; "would you like to come and watch?"