THE IMMORTAL NIGHTINGALE 229 



branching oak trees growing in a thicket of thorn, 

 hazel, holly, and bramble bushes. It is the best place 

 on such a day, and finding a nice spot to stand in, 

 well sheltered from the wind, I set myself to watch 

 the open space before me. It is shut in by huge 

 disordered brambles, and might very well tempt any 

 living creature with spring in its blood, moving un- 

 easily among the roots, to come forth to sun itself. 

 The ground is scantily clothed with pale dead grass 

 mixed with old fallen leaves and here and there a 

 few tufts of dead ragwort and thistle. But in a long 

 hour's watching I see nothing; — not a rabbit, nor 

 even a wood mouse, or a field or bank vole, where at 

 other seasons I have seen them come out, two or three 

 at a time, and scamper over the rustling leaves in 

 pursuit of each other. Nor do I hear anything; not 

 a bird nor an insect, and no sound but the whish 

 and murmur of the wind in the stiff holly leaves and 

 the naked grey and brown and purple branches. I 

 remember that on my very last visit this same small 

 thicket teemed with life, visible and audible; it was 

 in its spring foliage, exquisitely fresh and green, 

 sparkling with dewdrops and bright with flowers 

 about the roots — ground ivy, anemone, primrose, 

 and violet. I listened to the birds until the nightingale 

 burst into song and I could thereafter attend to no 

 other. For he was newly arrived, and although we 

 have him with us every year, invariably on the first 

 occasion of hearing him in spring, the strain affects 

 us as something wholly new in our experience, a fresh 

 revelation of nature's infinite richness and beauty. 



