A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE. 



WHILE I lingered away the latter half of May in 

 Scotland, and the first half of June in northern Eng- 

 land, 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 cross- 

 ing 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 Hazle- 

 mere, 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 disturbed. 



"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 

 don't hear the nightingale after the cuckoo is gone, 

 sir." 



