WHERE GRASS IS GREEN. 167 



time as I have stated. I made sketches of the three, 

 and of the place they rested on. 



"Well, Charlie, have the nightingales brought 

 their young out all right in that tuft of ivy that 

 hangs over the bank on the side of the road ? " I ask 

 a young, broad-shouldered lad. 



" Yes, they're all right ; the old birds have got 

 'em out in the copse : they're flyers now, a nice lot 

 on 'em there is. There's some chance now perhaps 

 o' hearin' nightingales again, since my boss, old 

 Cricket, dropped on them 'ere London bird-catchers. 

 That warn't a bad stroke o' old Cricket's, was it? 

 No, it did a power of good." 



Cricket, or old Crick, as he was more familiarly 

 called, missed hearing or seeing numerous nightin- 

 gales that frequented one very beautiful spot in 

 the grounds. Thinking they had been cleared 

 out there, he made for another favoured spot where 

 he knew them to be, and hid up in order to watch. 



He had not been quiet long before he saw two 

 men coming up the coach-road : his retriever was 

 with him. When the men arrived they unpacked 

 their clap-traps, baited each of them with a meal- 

 worm, and placed them on the ground under the 



