CONCERNING A BLACKBIRD..
[To THE EDITOR Or THE "SPECTATOR." J SIR,—There is a large walled-in garden in South Wales haunted by a ben blackbird, who for some time has played the part of a robin, the bird familiar to us all as the close companion of every gardener with a spade. In the garden referred to there are more weeds than anything else. Owing to the long neglect of many years, it became simply a field of weeds, which, indeed, are quite interesting in their way, especially when, as in one quarter, the bindweed weaves a lovely lacing all over the rough mould, varying the level at intervals by twining up stray groundsel-stalks here and there. The long unpruned apple-trees still bear a few apples, and the old peach-trees cling to the wall all unfruitful and forlorn. Newly appointed gardeners, however, have worked changes, and cabbages, peas, and beans grow now in health and luxuriance. The new tenant also himself set to work to dig and clear • away the weeds throughout the length of the great flower-border. One morning as he was hard at work a blackbird suddenly popped out from cover of the beans and watched the spade. Next day it had become almost tamer than a robin. And whenever Mr. A. had to grapple hand to hand with some stubborn root, the bird would lose every trace of fear, standing within a few inches off, its head on one side and bright eye intent, certain of some fat worm or delicious centipede turning up next minute. Misunderstandings, how- ever (no rare event between the best of friends), soon began to arise in the garden. Once it happened that Mr. A. was absent for a whole day, and the blackbird sulked and disappeared for two days. Then there were the intervening Sundays, when it was always nowhere to be seen. And there were days when strict allegiance to its old friend failed, and attentions were divided with a fine impartiality between the gentleman and the day-labourer. It had, however, learnt to run from under some laurels quite close to Mr. A., at a call from him, to gobble up morsels of biscuit, &c., at his feet, not a bit afraid, although the call its friend chose to make was just a gruff call, the same as to his dog. Then ensued twenty-four hours of persistent rain and chill, and though the morrow brought sunshine and the garden warmed up, for many days there was no sweet bird about the place. We thought it would be seen no more,—until, perchance, some bare winter's day a little heap of drenched feathers came to light somewhere under the laurel hedge. (27th.—There is no need for any- thing by way of sentiment. This morning our blackbird has just hustled itself over the wall from the other side, swallowed a lot of biscuit, and hurried back again.)—I am, Sir, &e.,
E. V. B.
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