"Yet bird of the wilderness, sad is our lot, Our home, confiscated, our name, a dark blot; The Cornish chief, stricken at Prestonpan's fight, Wounded at Culloden for King and the right, And captured at Braddock's defeat in the glen, Was branded at home by a sycophant's pen. "Oh, bird of the wildwood, upon the green bough Thy ancestor sang just as sweetly as thou, He sang, as thou singest, that evil should fail, Injustice should fall, and that good should prevail; But surely the goddess of justice is blind, When traitor is honoured and patriot maligned. "Sing sweetly, O wild bird, upon the green tree, And let me draw comfort and solace from thee, Though home's confiscated, dishonoured our name, And poverty adds a deep sting to our shame, And father's departed,--yet, evil shall fail,-- Some day,--right shall triumph and good shall prevail." Clear and sweet arose the melody, and yet with a plaintive element of sadness in it. The parson paused in his steps to listen. On one side of the highway stretched the woods of the Manor, their shadow etched darkly by the slightly slanting sun-rays; on the other side were the fields, yellow, ripe, all ready for the sickle of the reaper. A wood-lark, the sweetest of all English birds, arose in the air from the Manor woods and, still twittering, flew over hedge and field, no doubt seeking its home and mate. A smile of pleasure lit up the saintly old rector's face and then merged into the thoughtful. He made a pleasing picture leaning on his silver-headed cane, his long skirted coat slightly open at the neck, revealing the white stock-cravat in its fluffy folds, his head slightly inclined as if not willing to lose a single bar of the song. Not until the song was ended did he venture forward. "Most remarkable song and most remarkable sweet tenor voice--yes--a great deal sweeter than Penjerrick's. I must have that voice for our parish choir." Arriving at the corner of the woods, the silence of the singer was explained in a single, brief, cursory glance. There, seated on the hedge that separated the woods from the road, sat the figure of a boy, tall, sinewy and strong, yet still a boy. His cap had fallen to the ground and the tangled masses of dark red hair lay deep on his brow. With melancholy, abstracted air, he was gazing across the fields as if in meditation. "Why, Ande, you are quite a singer," said the parson, in a pleasant voice. The lad, startled from his reverie, leaped down from the hedge, picked up his cap and coming forward gave his customary salutation, "Good-morning, Parson Trant." The parson returned the salutation and then there was silence for a moment, during which the rector scrutinised him with his kindly, yet keen grey eyes.