106 FRESH FIELDS 



me that I paid little attention to the report of the 

 next man I met, who said he had heard a nightin- 

 gale just around a bend in the road, a few minutes' 

 walk in advance of me. At ten o'clock I reached 

 Liphook. I expected and half hoped the inn would 

 turn its back upon me again, in which case I pro- 

 posed to make for Wolmer Forest, a few miles dis- 

 tant, but it did not. Before going to bed, I took 

 a short and hasty walk down a promising-looking 

 lane, and again met a couple who had heard night- 

 ingales. "It was a nightingale, was it not, Char- 

 ley?" 



If all the people of whom I inquired for nightin- 

 gales in England could have been together and 

 compared notes, they probably would not have been 

 long in deciding that there was at least one crazy 

 American abroad. 



I proposed to be up and off at five o'clock in the 

 morning, which seemed greatly to puzzle mine host. 

 At first he thought it could not be done, but finally 

 saw his way out of the dilemma, and said he would 

 get up and undo the door for me himself. The 

 morning was cloudy and misty, though the previous 

 night had been of the fairest. There is one thing 

 they do not have in England that we can boast of 

 at home, and that is a good masculine type of 

 weather: it is not even feminine; it is childish and 

 puerile, though I am told that occasionally there is 

 a full-grown storm. But I saw nothing but petu- 

 lant little showers and prolonged juvenile sulks. 

 The clouds have no reserve, no dignity ; if there is 



