A very unpretending looking bird, with a brown 68 back, and a dull white breast was sitting on a beech-tree close by. Could that be the minstrel, that plain insignificant looking bird?
And then as the Blackbird reflected, he all at once called to mind who it was,––this songster of the night!
It was none other than the Nightingale, the queen of song, the glory of the woods; and the Blackbird flew back to his nest, lost in admiration of the small brown-coated singer, his heart filled with gratitude for the glorious song.
END OF CHIRP THE THIRD.
