And oh, they are such a pretty little crowd. One has no idea what clear, beautifully bright colour our British birds can show, unless one has seen them right away from the taint of smoke and grime. Town environments, be they ever so rural, are always reminiscent of the chimneys in the distance, or the railways that cut them up. But on these hills, where cottage chimneys are very few and far between, and what smoke there is, is usually wood smoke, some of the birds are exceedingly lovely. There is the great-tit, brilliantly yellow as a daffodil, with an admixture of black velvet and pure white; he and his wife quite take your breath away as they splash down, out of space, and flitter about among the sober thrushes and darker blackbirds. And when, in the summer, they bring their babies along with them, I don’t think there is a prettier sight in creation than the little bluey-grey balls of fluff, that peck daintily at the bits of suet, and then hiss vigorously and scold at the big wasps that come and steal it from under their very beaks! So tame and innocent of fear they are, that they come into the room whenever the window is left open; and mother and father follow them, quite as trustfully. Then again, we all think we know the blue-tit; but when you see him in the wilds he is a very different-looking morsel from the dirty-blue apology you meet nearer town. On the bird-board, he is almost metallic in the brightness of his blue-green feathers, and the lovely tint of yellow. He raises his crest feathers, with pleasure, when he sees the suet on the branch; and over the little acrobat goes, hanging head downwards or clinging with one tiny claw to a piece of twig; it is all one to him, he swings about like a bright enamel pendant. The male chaffinch is another very gay little fellow, with his warm red and pretty blue and yellow. He calls “Spink, spink,” in clear penetrating notes, as he lands on the board; and up comes his wife—one of the most shapely and elegant of all the small birds, with the dearest little face! Mr. and Mrs. Bullfinch invariably come together, unless she is detained at home with the family. They perch on the edge of the drinking saucer, side by side, like a pair of solemn paroquets; he, very beautiful in crimson and black velvet; she, decidedly more homely and nondescript. But I can’t go through the whole list, there is such a crowd—including a little flock of eight goldfinches that for two winters have always been about the garden together. Jays, with their handsome wing feathers and ugly, very ugly, mouths, swoop down continually, scaring the small birds to vanishing point, and gobbling up the food by the shovelful! Magpies in plenty perch on the garden rails, but only once has one come to the board when I have been there, and then he got his tail so mixed up with the decorative branches, that he had the fright of his life, and never repeated the adventure.