protected too by a roof of brambles. The nests that still have eggs are
not, like the nests of the early days of April, easily found; they are
deep down in the tangled herbage by the shore of the ditch, or far inside
the thorny thickets which then looked mere bushes, and are now so broad.
Landrails are running in the grass concealed as a man would be in a wood;
they have nests and eggs on the ground for which you may search in vain
till the mowers come.

Up in the corner a fragment of white fur and marks of scratching show
where a doe has been preparing for a litter. Some well-trodden runs lead
from mound to mound; they are sandy near the hedge where the particles
have been carried out adhering to the rabbits' feet and fur. A crow rises
lazily from the upper end of the field, and perches in the chestnut. His
presence, too, was unsuspected. He is there by far too frequently. At
this season the crows are always in the mowing-grass, searching about,
stalking in winding tracks from furrow to furrow, picking up an egg here
and a foolish fledgling that has wandered from the mound yonder. Very
likely there may be a moorhen or two slipping about under cover of the
long grass; thus hidden, they can leave the shelter of the flags and
wander a distance from the brook. So that beneath the surface of the
grass and under the screen of the leaves there are ten times more birds
than are seen.

Besides the singing and calling, there is a peculiar sound which is only
heard in summer. Waiting quietly to discover what birds are about, I
become aware of a sound in the very air. It is not the midsummer hum
which will soon be heard over the heated hay in the valley and over the
cooler hills alike. It is not enough to be called a hum, and does but
just tremble at the extreme edge of hearing. If the branches wave and
rustle they overbear it; the buzz of a passing bee is so much louder it