of the constellations; and sometimes she grew angry with them, thinking, 'are there so many angels, cannot they warn the tartane off the shoals? cannot they stoop and let a light shine on the sea when their stars are covered and the boats go aground in the dark?'
The planets and the-stars were as great a perplexity to her as the birds, and much less consolation.
Every one knows (or at least every one who takes thought of these things, which, perhaps, is a small minority) that to see birds in their own homes is difficult. The nest of the blackhead is made so like in hue to the thornbush it rests on, the nest of the cisticola is woven so wisely amongst the rushes of the waterside, the flight is so swift, the vigilance 1s so great, the feathers are so often so like the brown of the bark or the grey-green of the sedges, that even the quickest eye may see but little of them, and even the gold of the oriole and the blue of the magnificent chough may escape detection in the shadows of the woods. But with tenderness for them and patience they may be traced in their daily ways and wanderings, and few lives repay attention to them so delightfully as do the lives of the birds.
