94 A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE. 



the morning. This time I passed down a laue by the 

 neglected garden and orchard, where I was told the 

 birds had sung for weeks past j then under the rail- 

 road by a cluster of laborers' cottages, and along a 

 road with many copses and bushy fence-corners on 

 either hand, for two miles, but I heard no nightingales, 

 A boy of whom I inquired seemed half frightened, 

 and went into the house without answering. 



After a late breakfast I sallied out again, going 

 farther in the same direction, and was overtaken by 

 several showers. I heard many and frequent bird- 

 songs, the lark, the wren, the thrush, tbe black- 

 bird, the white-throat, the greenfinch, and the hoarse, 

 guttural cooing of the wood-pigeons, but not the note 

 I was in quest of. I passed up a road that was a 

 deep trench in the side of a hill overgrown with low 

 beeches. The roots of the trees formed a net-work 

 on the side of the bank, as their branches did above. 

 In a frame-work of roots, within reach of my hand, I 

 spied a wren's nest, a round hole leading to the in- 

 terior of a large mass of soft green moss, a structure 

 displaying the taste and neatness of the daintiest of 

 bird architects, and the depth and warmth and snug- 

 ness of the most ingenious mouse habitation. While 

 lingering here, a young countryman came along whom 

 I engaged in conversation. No, he had not heard the 

 nightingale for a few days ; but the previous week he 

 had been in camp with the militia near Gnildford, 

 and while on picket duty had heard her luarly all 

 night. " * Don't she sing splendid to-nig <t ? ' t^*e 



