CHAPTER IX 



THE NIGHTINGALE 



When the coppice-trees of the Broadland have broken into 

 bud, and young leaves look large and bland by the still 

 waters of the lagoons, the Nightingales that live thereabouts 

 arrive from over the sea, and mayhap as you are sailing 

 some evening over the silver mere, within a mile of the 

 sacred grove, their sweet 7'//^, jng, breaks upon your ear, 

 as you glide noiselessly through the still waters, your sail 

 clearly reflected in the stiller water below; and with your 

 ears full of his sweet music — for a rival soon answers the 

 proud challenge — your eyes turn dreamily to the distant 

 wood, looming fresh and green over the flatland, and you 

 listen, soothed by the soughing of the breeze in your ear, 

 through which soft aeolian music the distant voices of the 

 proud cocks steal like some far-away dream of music, re- 

 minding you the nightingales are back again to their old 

 haunts, to challenge and pair and build their coracle-like 

 nests of oak-leaves, in which to float their fledglings upon 

 the grassy marshland sea. 



And next day, mayhap, you steal into the wood, and hear 

 first the regular strokes of an old man riving broaches, who, 

 apparently heedless of the music, splits up his wands for 

 the coming thatching season. But he has not been inatten- 

 tive, and as you draw near he sees you are absorbed in the 

 bird's music, and says carelessly, " You see that's a different 

 bahd a-singing t'mornin ; he hev a different note ; one bird 

 sing of a night and t'other sing of a daytime. I heard 'em 

 for the first time last night." And the spell is strong upon 

 you, and you listen and recognise the truth of the old man's 



