A PIPING STARLING
Apart from the cry of the nesting plover and the sounds from a rookery, I think one of the delights of spring, or any other time of the year when one is lucky enough to hear it, is the piping of a starling. Starlings may grub in the grass and harbour parasites in their bodies and ticks in their untidy nests, but when the morning sun shines and their hearts are full they perch and sing and prove themselves poets and minstrels at the same instant, The song and the vibration of throat feathers reveal an emotion, a happiness that only a bird can express. I watched one this morning. I was in a hurry, but the piping was too wonderful to miss. The bird sat on the edge of a roof and piped for all he was worth. While he did so a cat came out of the window of a room beneath and crawled along the window ]edge in the hope of reaching him, but could not do so. The cat grimaced and mentally devoured the bird, but the starling was transported with joy and sang on until he could sing no more, after which he departed, leaving the cat in a most precarious situation from which he would evidently have great difficulty in extricating himself.
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