108 FRESH FIELDS 



come escape to me. I opened the wicket or 

 mounted the stile without much concern as to 

 whether it would further me on my way or not. 

 It was like turning the flank of an enemy. These 

 well-kept fields and lawns, these cozy nooks, these 

 stately and exclusive houses that had taken such 

 pains to shut out the public gaze, from the foot- 

 path one had them at an advantage, and could 

 pluck out their mystery. On striking the highway 

 again, I met the postmistress, stepping briskly 

 along with the morning mail. Her husband had 

 died, and she had taken his place as mail-carrier. 

 England is so densely populated, the country is so 

 like a great city suburb, that your mail is brought 

 to your door everywhere, the same as in town. I 

 walked a distance with a boy driving a little old 

 white horse with a cart-load of brick. He lived at 

 Hedleigh, six miles distant; he had left there at 

 five o'clock in the morning, and had heard a night- 

 ingale. He was sure; as I pressed him, he de- 

 scribed the place minutely. "She was in the large 

 fir-tree by Tom Anthony's gate, at the south end 

 of the village." Then, I said, doubtless I shall 

 find one in some of Gilbert White's haunts; but I 

 did not. I spent two rainy days at Selborne; I 

 passed many chilly and cheerless hours loitering 

 along those wet lanes and dells and dripping hang- 

 ers, wooing both my bird and the spirit of the gen- 

 tle parson, but apparently without getting very 

 near to either. When I think of the place now, I 

 see its hurrying and anxious haymakers in the field 



