86 FRESH FIELDS 



and was out upon the chase again at four o'clock 

 in the morning. This time I passed down a lane 

 by the neglected garden and orchard, where I was 

 told the birds had sung for weeks past; then under 

 the railroad by a cluster of laborers' cottages, and 

 along a road with many copses and bushy fence- 

 corners on either hand, for two miles, but I heard 

 no nightingales. A boy of whom I inquired 

 seemed half frightened, and went into the house 

 without answering. 



After a late breakfast I sallied out again, going 

 farther in the same direction, and was overtaken by 

 several showers. I heard many and frequent bird- 

 songs, — the lark, the wren, the thrush, the black- 

 bird, the whitethroat, the greenfinch, and the 

 hoarse, guttural cooing of the wood- pigeons, — but 

 not the note I was in quest of. I passed up a road 

 that was a deep trench in the side of a hill over- 

 grown with low beeches. The roots of the trees 

 formed a network on the side of the bank, as their 

 branches did above. In a framework of roots, 

 within reach of my hand, I spied a wren's nest, 

 a round hole leading to the interior of a large mass 

 of soft green moss, a structure displaying the taste 

 and neatness of the daintiest of bird architects, and 

 the depth and warmth and snugness of the most 

 ingenious mouse habitation. While lingering here, 

 a young countryman came along whom I engaged 

 in conversation. No, he had not heard the night- 

 ingale for a few days; but the previous week he 

 had been in camp with the militia near Guildford, 



