78 A PHILOSOPHER WITH NATURE 



carrying a long, narrow net between them, slightly 

 lifted in front and weighted behind. The birds lie 

 on the open ground and do not rise. As soon as 

 the net is over them they are doomed, and a whole 

 covey may be captured at once. The thorn-bushes 

 are the snares which wreck the net. 



In the dim light mansions begin to loom out of 

 the trees, and to take up the best positions on the 

 higher grounds. The outskirts of the Metropolis 

 have met us ; just now, where no landmark showed 

 the spot, the first boundary line was crossed the 

 line which marks the limits of the London Metropoli- 

 tan Police area, a circle within which sleeps a popu- 

 lation of millions. Under the oak copses the way 

 winds. It is sheltered here from the north, and 

 the air is warm and still. Hark ! From the depths 

 of the straggling thicket which skirts the wood there 

 comes now a sound in which there is something 

 curiously weird when heard for the first time and 

 from a distance. It is a bird singing in the night. 

 Clear, soft, and distinct, the notes rise and fall in 

 the silence. It is the nightingale ; this is a favourite 

 haunt of the birds. It is surprising how far the 

 sound travels ; even after a quarter of a mile has 

 been traversed in its direction it is still a considerable 

 distance off. Similar sounds come now from the 

 copses above, but the birds have each appropriated 

 a situation ; solitary they sit without changing 

 position, each in continuous song throughout the 

 night. It is the male bird which thus sings to the 

 female as she sits on the nest. It is only a few 

 steps from the thicket at last, and the songster 

 cannot be more than twenty yards off. You do 

 not wonder now at the estimate of the extraordinary 



