

At the veiy moment that I am about to pen the conckision of 

 this book, our illustrious master arrives from his great autumnal 

 sport. Toussenel brings me a nightingale. 



I had requested him to assist me with his advice, to guide me in 

 choosing a singing nightingale. He does not wiute, but he comes ; 

 lie does not advise, he looks about, finds, gives, realizes my dream. 

 This, of a truth, is friendship. 



Be welcome, bird, both for the sake of the cherished hand which 

 brings thee, and for thy own, for thy hallowed muse, the genius 

 which dwells within thee ! 



Wilt thou sing readily for me, and, by thy puissance of love and 

 calm, shed harmony on a heart troubled by the cmel history of men ? 



It was an event in our family, and we established the poor artist- 

 prisoner in a window-niche, but enveloped with a curtain; in such 

 wise that, being both in solitude and yet in society, he might 

 gradually accustom himself to his new hosts, reconnoitre the locality, 

 and assure himself that he was under a safe, a peaceful, and benevo- 

 lent roof. 



No other bird lived in this saloon. Unfortunately, my familiar 

 robin, which flies freely about my study, penetrated into the apart- 



