The woods were almost songless, and each day added to the increasing multitude of dead leaves that drove before the wind; each day, too, the bare boughs, once so well covered, flung a few more of their last leaves to the ground. About this time, too, the Blackbird did not feel quite well--he was listless, his wings would droop in spite of himself. His feathers were not so black and glossy as they had been,--the fact was, the moulting season had begun, and it was some time before he began to feel really bright and well again. It was also about this time that the Blackbird noticed a most unusual gathering together of the swallows, and a good deal of commotion and twittering. They assembled in large flocks, and appeared to be eagerly discussing some weighty affair of State. After such discussions they would suddenly disperse, but only to re-assemble and twitter more eagerly than ever. What could it all mean? Of course the sage and experienced Rook was referred to. "These birds," he said, "are about to what is called _migrate_, it is a very important event to them, and they hold long consultations beforehand. As you may remember, I told you in the spring they do not spend above half the year in England, and now that the leaves are falling, and the winds are getting cold, they know it is high time to be off. They are wonderfully quick flyers, a few days will find them on the distant shores of Africa." "It must be very sunny, very delightful there," said the Blackbird. "I daresay it is," replied the Rook, hopping slowly from one fir-branch to another; "but I had far rather remain at home. Dear old place!" he said, looking at the venerable gray mansion, and then at the beautiful lake and wood behind which the sun was setting. "I wouldn't miss the winter and spring here for anything that Africa or any other place in the wide world could give me." The gray stones and gables were bright with the glory of the setting sun, the ruddy stems of the firs had caught the reflection and stood out in their depth of red from the dark green foliage. Some autumn flowers and a few late roses still gave colour to the garden, and the sound of far-off childish voices echoed from the more distant lime-trees. Willie came dancing across the lawn, and the perambulator, pushed by Nurse Barlow, followed more slowly. Willie's eyes were sparkling with excitement. He had been out with his father, and had hunted the hedgerows for blackberries to his heart's content. In one hand he held a small basket wherein lay some fresh-gathered mushrooms. In the other he bore in triumph a large hazel branch, loaded with nuts. Just then his mother came out on the lawn, and he ran towards her with eager joy and affection. "Look, mother! I picked these in the field my very own self. Ain't they beauties?" he said, turning the mushrooms slowly over; "they're for your dinner, and _I_ picked them."