The blackbird also craves a boon,
Says "Bring a cherry, bring a cherry, soon, soon, soon;"
And there in answer to his call
The cherry blooms on the garden wall.
The thrush of all the birds that sing
Of nests and little wives in Spring
Alone confides the secret way:--
"What does she _line_ it with? Why, clay."
The willow wren she sings a song
Just like her mate, though not so long,
But both sing in all winds and weathers,
"Sing to me; bring to me little brown feathers."
* * * * *
SPRING AT KEW.
I am not one of those who believe in going down to the country to look at
this Spring of which there is so much talk. Wanting in business
organisation and coherent effort, Spring in the country is a poor affair at
the best; there may be half-a-dozen daffodils in flower in one spinney, but
you have to tramp over two or three muddy fields after that to find a
button-hole of primroses, and so onwards over a stile and a ditch to the
place where the blackthorn has blossomed and the green woodpecker is
pecking the greenwood tree.
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