There is only one sort of bird that I can tolerate caged,
though even then I think it hard, and that is what is called in
France the Bec-d'Argent. I once had two of these pigmies in
captivity; and in the quiet, hire house upon a silent street where I
was then living, their song, which was not much louder than a bee's,
but airily musical, kept me in a perpetual good humour. I put the
cage upon my table when I worked, carried it with me when I went for
meals, and kept it by my head at night: the first thing in the
morning, these MAESTRINI would pipe up. But these, even if you can
pardon their imprisonment, are for the house. In the garden the wild
birds must plant a colony, a chorus of the lesser warblers that
should be almost deafening, a blackbird in the lilacs, a nightingale
down the lane, so that you must stroll to hear it, and yet a little
farther, tree-tops populous with rooks.
Your house should not command much outlook; it should be set deep and
green, though upon rising ground, or, if possible, crowning a knoll,
for the sake of drainage. Yet it must be open to the east, or you
will miss the sunrise; sunset occurring so much later, you can go up
a few steps and look the other way.
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