Jack,

from? Brantingham, I suppose. look here! Jack, I say, here is-; he was just behind you, he says, all through the service. I didn't see him until he rose to leave, but then my eyes trouble me on bright days; 'tis a mercy I know my Prayer-book and could read the service blindfold. Dark interior? Yes, the nave is rather dark; that stained glass was a mistake. But what is a vicar to do? It was kindly meant. Can't we get you to stay to lunch? Eh? Pot-luck, you know! No? Next time, then!"

So, with a firm hand-grip the good man turns back to his church wherein a stout village-wife awaits him at the font, babe on arm.

Alone, again, under green hedgerow elms, pacing ranks of standing corn, how it all comes back! What is it that I have seen,-have felt, too, and smelt and handled during these few crowded minutes? Those quilted jackets, I could draw them from memory! It was unmistakably, horridly real. But when can it have happened? Ashdown is out of the question, even the historic Englefield will not fit in, for Ethelwulf (he was an Alderman, by the by)-failed to storm the stockade; died, indeed, outside it.

One thing is sure. I was there. Some inherited molecule of grey cerebral matter responded to some local stimuThe Contemporary Review.

lus and repeated its thousand-yearsold experience. Impossible? Why so? What are forty generations in the history of a race? Does not the young Arctic sandpiper, scarce eight weeks from the egg, leave the frozen moss of Franz Joseph Land and flit south-east by south across continent and archipelago, land and sea, to spend the first winter of its little life in New Zealand? The chart of that great journey is graven in its tiny brain. League by league it follows invisible tracks first beaten by its ancestors in geological times inconceivably remote.

I was there, I tell you; the shouting is still in my ears, my breath still catches from the struggle. Nonsense? What is time? Tell me so much at least, or cap to our race's greatest, he knew that we are of such stuff as dreams are made of.

So musing, so bejeered by the dulleyed matter-of-fact modern side of self, I find my way up the avenue to the shaven greenness of the lawn splashed with its pools of exotic color. There under the cedar, heels-up, a-snore in his hammock, lies one of our new leaders, taper-fingered, spare, light in the bone; the sinister eyebrow raised, maintaining, even in sleep, its sceptical attitude; an incarnate doubt.

The dream within me shuddered and died.

Ashton Hilliers.

:

Pall Mall Magazine.

Ernest Rhys.

At this season of the year comparative silence has fallen upon nature, few song-birds are heard in the bare woodlands and grey meadows, and the severity of our English climate restricts out-of-door investigation of wild life within narrow limits. The lover of nature, unless he be sufficiently robust to face inclement winds and rains and frosts, is compelled to devote his attention to such subjects as may be considered at home-to read

1. "The Evolution of Bird-Song.' By Charles A. Witchell. (London: Adam & Charles Black.) 2. "The Cries and Call-Notes of Wild Birds." By Charles A. Witchell. (London: L. Upcott Gill.)

8. "The Structure and Life of Birds." By F. W. Headley, M.A., F.Z.S. (London: Macmillan & Co.)

up the authorities, to consult his notebooks, to ransack his memory, and to deal with fascinating problems like that before us.

Are the songs of birds hereditary? What part does instinct play in their development? How far are they influenced by danger and hunger, and the vicissitudes of the struggle for existence? Are they largely due to imitation and mimicry? Are they simply the expression of defiance, or of the

4. "A Dictionary of Birds." By Alfred Newton, assisted by Hans Gadow. (London: A. & C. Black.)

5. "Darwinism: An Exposition of the Theory of Natural Selection." By Alfred Russel Wallace, LL.D., etc. (London: Macmillan & Co.) 6. "Langage et Chant des Oiseaux." By F. Lescuyer.

passion of love? Or are they the overflow of abundant vitality? Do several of these factors blend in the production of song? How are we to account for varieties of song in individuals of the same species? These, and kindred questions, occur to the mind as soon as we begin to look at the subject.

In this article we shall, for the sake of clearness, adopt Mr. Charles A. Witchell's definition of bird-song-"the whole range of voice in birds." The term "phrase," as we shall employ it, will not mean "a strain in music, but a period of song, so that if a bird sang a few notes at one time, then paused, and sang them again and so on, each repetition would be a 'phrase.' A "strain" means a succession of phrases uttered in a definite order that may be repeated again and again. In the same song a "phrase" may be exactly reproduced, or it may be varied at intervals; and a "strain" of music may incorporate many different phrases.

Probably the first vocal sounds were produced involuntarily under the influence of danger, or during conflict, and were cries of terror or anger. These, as Mr. Witchell points out, are represented, in their earliest expression, in the hissing which is common to reptiles (to which avians are physically related) and to certain birds when they are disturbed by intruders on their privacy. The wryneck, the great owl, the gander, the mute swan, and other birds utter this form of menace when their nests are invaded and their young threatened. Gradually this hissing sound developed into a highpitched exclamation of alarm, which as it was found to answer its purpose was repeated when occasion demanded, and, being modulated by the particular character of the vocal organ, became common to a genus or a species, and was understood by that genus or species as a danger signal. The single alarm-note then grew into a pro

longed alarm-cry, varying in vehemence and pitch according to the kind of bird; and as it would be uttered, generally, in the vicinity of the nest, the fledglings would become acquainted with it as suggesting to them the presence of an enemy. In due course it would be reproduced and perpetuated; and in this way each race of birds would evolve its own arbitrary and practically exclusive danger-cry.

The habit of contemporary birds to utter their alarm-signal many times in succession when fear intensifies emotion will afford illustration of what has just been advanced. "It is a matter of easy observation," says Mr. Witchell, "that the rattling alarm of the blackbird is constituted of repetitions of one cry. As the peril increases, the notes become more frequent, more acute, and considerably higher in pitch." Is it not probable that, invariably, alarms which consist of a note repeated many times were evolved in a similar way?

The vocal sounds originating in fear and menace were further developed by hostile combat. In defence of their homes, in their jealousies of rivals, in eager competitive quest of food, avian war doubtless raged in the beginning of their history, as it still rages at times in woodland solitudes, on river margins, and around tree cities. The avian war-cry of defiance, the confused noise of battle, the shout of triumph, the shriek of suffering, broke the silence of the primeval forests of gigantic palms and ferns, mingled with the roar of oceans, and the troubled plash of mighty streams where fought and bellowed the incredible monsters of that far-away world. We can only dimly imagine the conditions of life on this planet in those distant days; but we see clearly enough from the analogy of to-day how the martial passion. stirring emotion, must have found expression in voices that filled the world

with a tumult of angry and defiant sounds.

We are familiar with avians that illustrate the influence of anger and defiance in the employment of birdvoice. Chanticleer invariably crows when it has beaten a rival, as well as when it challenges to single combat. The king-bird (Tyrannus carolinensis), at one end of the scale, when attacking the lordly eagle, and the snow-bird, at the other end, when quarrelling over food; larks and buntings when contending for an eligible nesting-place; the robin when provoked by the song of a rival singer,—all give vent to their fury, their greed, their envy, in cries more or less discordant. Some birds, like the crested lark, the chiff-chaff, the tree-pipit, and the wren, sing when engaged in contest. They sing on the battle-field, and chant to the stroke of tooth and claw. Mr. Witchell, quoting from Jesse, records that a blackbird, after beating a cat away from the fledglings, celebrated its victory with a song.

Naturalists, usually, have distinguished the call-note, by which the attention of other birds is attracted, from the danger-signal and the combat-cry. Not that there is a clearly marked difference between these utterances in every species, but that in some instances specific call-notes are used. It is likely that the earliest callnotes were adaptations of alarm-cries, employed, first, to secure mutual aid and companionship among associated individuals to whom the alarm-cry was well known; and, secondly, to express the need or the discovery of food. The call-note, therefore, is related to fellowship, and to hunger and its satisfying, as the alarm-signal and the combat-cry are related to danger and defiance. The young birds in their straits, after leaving the nest to shift for themselves, and the old birds instinctively concerned for their offspring, utter

calls which are penetrated with a plaintive and distressful, or a sympathetic tone not heard in the cries already alluded to. No doubt, as we shall see, imitation in time influenced these inherited modes of expression. We see that many birds are garrulous while they continue with their young, making frequent use of these characteristic calls to direct and console them. Doubtless the necessity for protective silence among birds haunting grassy savannahs and vast treeless plains, where there is little shelter from enemies, and where keen sight is of greater value than brilliant song. has retarded the development of voice; and this may in part account for the comparative songlessness of these birds. Fear, unless acute, induces silence, an axiom of Mr. Witchell's which appears to be true.

Incessant and exacting labor to procure food has the same effect. Hence it is that some of the most charming woodland birds are well-nigh silent. The woodpeckers, for instance, are doomed to a life of severe toil. They have no leisure to learn to sing, and little of the vivacity that finds expression in music. They have not advanced beyond the most meagre call. The conditions of existence among the raptorial birds, whose life is spent in long spells of hunger, as they patiently watch for prey, intermittent with periods of gluttony and consequent lethargy, militate against any development of song beyond their hereditary or instinctive cries and calls. Kindred arguments may be applied to other species whose pre-occupations seem to have prevented the evolution of song.

The persistence of similar alarm- and defiance-cries and of the more social call-notes in species physically allied, but whose strains of song are quite distinct-some of these strains being remarkable for power and beauty. while others are of more limited range,

-may perhaps be regarded as a presumption that from the danger- and menace-signals the call-note was evolved, and that song in its fuller sense has its root here. Heredity may account for the retention of crude primal cries still of vital importance to the young-in species which have evolved exquisite musical strains; though, on the other hand, it may be contended that they are due to filial mimicry, together with the experience of the young birds that the utterance of these cries is associated with the approach of enemies or the supply of food.

The simplest songs consist more or less of repetition of call-notes, or of alarm- and call-notes interwoven with additional utterances in a musical phrase. This is evident to all who have an ear to hear,-to sympathetic listeners in field and copse and sunny glade, and especially to those whose perception is acute and clear through long training. Mr. Witchell fills several pages in illustration of this. We may be permitted, for convenience of space, to abbreviate his repertory of instances-to select and recast. The kestrel repeats its cry to its mate; the rook calls incessantly from its lofty perch; the tree-creeper and the wryneck utter in rapid succession their plaintive notes; the ringed plover doubles its call; the lesser spotted woodpecker iterates its meagre, metallic, unmodulated krick, krick; the greenfinch and bullfinch repeat their common call-note.

Then another phase ensues. The creeper utters its cry many times without an interval. The greenfinch adds to its ordinary call another expressive call-note, and repeats those notes in a regular succession, thus producing a sweet phrase which is sung both on the wing and on the perch.

The bullfinch introduces variations into the reiterations of its call-note.

and thus commences a warble. "The gold-crested wren constructs a phrase by uttering its call-squeak twice in double time, afterwards four times in succession, and in the latter stage the pace is accelerated towards the close." The pied wagtail sings a jumbled song in which its habitual notes predominate. "The willow-warbler repeats its alarm-call-note,-a whistle sounding like the word tewy slurred upwards, but rendered at a higher pitch. With progressive variations it constructs from this cry its beautiful song." The nuthatch utters from the elms, which are its larder, again and again its fulltoned call so rapidly that it produces a prolonged, mellow, bubbling strain. The skylark breaks its silence by repeating its call-note, soon, however, to abandon it for its ethereal melody. The goldfinch and the linnet appear to form their strains wholly out of call-notes and danger-cries. Even our most glorious singers, the thrush and the nightingale, mingle these notes and cries with their elaborate songs.

These illustrations are not given as proofs that all songs have been developed from elementary cries and calls, hereditary or instinctive; but to show that many songs were at first mere repetitions, more or less rapid and varied, of such cries and calls, slowly attaining permanence, and ultimately resulting in the strains that fill with music our parks and gardens and the wild places of nature.

Habit, emulation, physical energy, and the influence of environment modify such songs in regard to the length, force, and beauty of the strain.

It must not be supposed that all songs are repetitions of elementary notes, for the best singers develop their songs from exclamations of more extended range. Birds that sing prolonged melodies of heart-melting sweetness and power learn their songs as the child learns a language. Their