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Updated: May 11, 2025
I hear the Thrush, and the Blackbird, that romantic liar; then the delicate cadence, the wiry descending scale of the Willow-wren, or the Blackcap's stave of mellow music. All these are familiar but what is that unknown voice, that thrilling note?
But here was a note sweet and soft as that, and yet charged with a richness no blackcap's song had ever borne, because no blackcap has ever felt the joys and sorrows of a young human soul. The voice was singing in a language which seemed strange to me then, but has been familiar enough since: Intense curiosity now made me suddenly forget my troubles.
And lastly come a whole series in pale olive, and olive and cream, in which the general colour is that of a blackcap's egg, and the pattern made by alternate spots of olive and bands of cream. If these little gems of beauty come out of the London river, what may we not expect in the upper waters of the silver Thames? A search in the right places in its course will show.
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