The larks luckily take to the fields and do not trust themselves near
either cats or gardeners. They do not always escape even in the
fields, and the dead bodies of some of them are served in a pudding in
a Fleet Street restaurant. But, on the whole, considering what a
dangerous neighbour man is, they escape fairly lightly. There is a
sort of "live and let live" truce between them and the human race. The
chaffinches, too--the greatest bird multitude there is, perhaps, after
the house-sparrows--are free enough to sing. They have been, during
the past week, sailing out on short voyages from the tops of trees,
like flycatchers, dancing in the air after their victims and then
returning to the spray. The green-finch--that beautiful-winged Mrs
Gummidge among birds--is also abundant, and slips down nervously every
now and then among the groundsel in the unweeded garden. I confess the
greenfinch has all my sympathy, but it rather bores me. What the deuce
is it worrying about? There is no poetry in its lamentation--only a
sort of habitual formula of a poor, lorn woman. If birds could read, I
think I should add to the notices I put up a little board containing
the words:
"No bottles.
No hawkers,
No greenfinches."
I should feel really sorry if they took any notice of my notice, but
it might convey a hint to them that it would be good policy on their
part to cheer up for at least five minutes in the day and that, in any
case, there is no need to say the same thing over and over again.
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