Clinging to a swaying osier wand, now thickly studded with silver catkins, the reed bunting, black-capped and white-collared, stammers his uncertain metallic notes. Even in the height of the season his efforts are feeble; he never sounds as if he had reached beyond the learning stage: the reed bunting, though like others of his family performing persistently, is at the best a poor singer. In the wood beyond the blackbirds flute finely, the thrushes constantly change their rich notes, and the chaffinches continually repeat their cheerful songs; above the fields beyond, where a few leggy lambs are staggering after their heavy-fleeced parents, the larks are up, filling the air with music, and the wanton lapwings are calling everywhere. Yet the reed bunting’s insignificant stutter, drowned by the other birds, is another sign of spring. Although in many woods the marsh marigold buds look no further advanced than a week ago, in a few sheltered spots the golden blossoms have opened, and in at least one spot, known only to a few, the sweet violets have appeared. Even the calendar, which pays no attention to varying weather, admits that this is the end of winter.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Manchester Guardian, 21 March 1916.