The Open Air 



talking with a thorough sportsman recently, who 

 told me, to my delight, that he never reared birds by 

 hand; yet he had a fair supply, and could always give 

 a good day's sport, judged as any reasonable man 

 would judge sport. Nothing must enter the domains 

 of the hand-reared pheasant; even the nightingale 

 is not safe. A naturalist has recorded that in a 

 district he visited, the nightingales were always shot 

 by the keepers and their eggs smashed, because the 

 singing of these birds at night disturbed the repose of 

 the pheasants! They also always stepped on the 

 eggs of the fern-owl, which are laid on the ground, and 

 shot the bird if they saw it, for the same reason, as it 

 makes a jarring sound at dusk. The fern-owl, or 

 goatsucker, is one of the most harmless of birds a 

 sort of evening swallow living on moths, chafers, 

 and similar night-flying insects. 



Continuing my walk, still under the oaks and green 

 acorns, I wondered why I did not meet any one. 

 There was a man cutting fern in the wood a labourer 

 and another cutting up thistles in a field; but with 

 the exception of men actually employed and paid, 

 I did not meet a single person, though the lane I was 

 following is close to several well-to-do places. I call 

 that a well-to-do place where there are hundreds of 

 large villas inhabited by wealthy people. It is true 

 that the great majority of persons have to attend to 

 business, even if they enjoy a good income; still, 

 making every allowance for such a necessity, it is 

 singular how few, how very few, seem to appreciate 

 the quiet beauty of this lovely country. Somehow, 

 they do not seem to see it to look over it; there is 

 no excitement in it, for one thing. They can see a 

 great deal in Paris, but nothing in an English meadow. 

 I have often wondered at the rarity of meeting any 



166 



