204 The Nightingale's Morning Song. 



a streak of imperial purple plays upon the azure. 

 "Woodbine coils round the tall straight poles, and 

 wild hops, whose bloom emit a pleasant smell if 

 crushed in the fingers. On the upper and clearer 

 branches of the hawthorn the nightingale sings 

 more sweetly, I think, in the freshness of the spring 

 morning than at night. Resting quietly on an ash- 

 stole, with the scent of flowers, and the odor of 

 green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder 

 lighting up the lichen and the moss on the oak 

 trunk, a gentle air stirring in the branches above, 

 giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether, 

 there comes into the mind a feeling of intense joy in 

 the simple fact of living. 



The nightingale shows no timidity while'all is still, 

 but sings on the bough in full sight, hardly three 

 yards away, so that you can see the throat swell as 

 the notes are poured forth now in intricate trills, 

 now a low sweet call, then a liquid ' jug-jug-jug ! ' 

 To me it sounds richer in the morning sunlight, 

 flowers, and the rustle of green leaves seem the 

 natural accompaniment; and the distant chorus of 

 other birds affords a contrast and relief an orchestra 

 filling up the pauses and supporting the solo singer. 



Passing deeper into the wood, it is well to be a 

 little careful while stepping across the narrow water- 

 course that winds between the stoles. Rushes grow 

 thickly by the side, and the slender stream seems to 

 ooze rather than run, trickling slowly down to the 

 brook in the meadow. But the earth is treacherous 

 on its banks formed of decayed branches, leaves, 

 and vegetable matter, hidden under a thin covering 

 of aquatic grasses. Listen ! there is a faint rustling 



