A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE 93 



contentment; beauty without pride, order without 

 stiffness, age without decay. This people love the 

 country, because it would seem as if the country 

 must first have loved them. In a field I saw for 

 the first time a new species of clover, much grown 

 in parts of England as green fodder for horses. The 

 farmers call it trifolium, probably Trifolium incar- 

 natum. The head is two or three inches long, and 

 as red as blood. A field of it under the sunlight 

 presents a most brilliant appearance. As we walked 

 along, I got also my first view of the British blue 

 jay, — a slightly larger bird than ours, with a 

 hoarser voice and much duller plumage. Blue, the 

 tint of the sky, is not so common, and is not found 

 in any such perfection among the British birds as 

 among the American. My boy companion was 

 worthy of observation also. He was a curious 

 specimen, ready and officious, but, as one soon, 

 found out, full of duplicity. I questioned him 

 about himself. "I helps he, sir; sometimes I 

 shows people about, and sometimes I does errands. 

 I gets three a week, sir, and lunch and tea. I 

 lives with my grandmother, but I calls her mother, 

 sir. The master and the rector they gives me a 

 character, says I am a good, honest boy, and that 

 it is well I went to school in my youth. I am 

 ten, sir. Last year I had the measles, sir, and I 

 thought I should die; but I got hold of a bottle of 

 medicine, and it tasted like honey, and I takes the 

 whole of it, and it made me well, sir. I never 

 lies, sir. It is good to tell the truth." And yet 



