IV 



A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE 



\\l HILE I lingered away the latter half of May 

 ^ ^ in Scotland, and the first half of June in 

 northern England, and finally in London, intent on 

 seeing the land leisurely and as the mood suited, 

 the thought never occurred to me that I was in 

 danger of missing one of the chief pleasures I had 

 promised myself in crossing the Atlantic, namely, 

 the hearing of the song of the nightingale. Hence, 

 when on the 17th of June I found myself down 

 among the copses near Hazlemere, on the borders of 

 Surrey and Sussex, and was told by the old farmer, 

 to whose house I had been recommended by friends 

 in London, that I was too late, that the season of 

 the nightingale was over, I was a good deal dis- 

 turbed. 



"I think she be done singing now, sir; I ain't 

 heered her in some time, sir," said my farmer, as 

 we sat down to get acquainted over a mug of the 

 hardest cider I ever attempted to drink. 



"Too late!" I said in deep chagrin, "and I 

 might have been here weeks ago." 



"Yeas, sir, she be done now; May is the time 

 to hear her. The cuckoo is done too, sir; and you 



