96 A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE. 



With this man I made an engagement to take a walk 

 that evening at eight o'clock along a certain route 

 where he had heard plenty of nightingales but a few 

 days before. He was confident he could call them 

 out ; so was I. 



In the afternoon, which had gleams of warm sun- 

 shine, I made another excursion, less in hopes of 

 hearing my bird than of finding some one who could 

 direct me to the right spot. Once I thought the 

 game was very near. I met a boy who told me he 

 had heard a nightingale only fifteen minutes before, 

 "on Polecat Hill, sir, just this side the Devil's 

 Punch-bowl, sir ! " I had heard of his majesty's 

 punch-bowl before, and of the gibbets near it where 

 three murderers were executed nearly a hundred 

 years ago, but Polecat Hill was a new name to me. 

 The combination did not seem a likely place for 

 nightingales, but I walked rapidly thitherward; I 

 heard several warblers, but not Philomel, and was 

 forced to conclude that probably I had crossed the 

 sea to miss my bird by just fifteen minutes. I met 

 many other boys (is there any country where boys 

 do not prowl about in small bands of a Sunday ?) and 

 advertised the object of my search freely among 

 them, offering a reward that made their eyes glisten 

 for the bird in song ; but nothing ever came of it. 

 In my desperation, I even presented a letter I had 

 brought to the village squire, just as, in company 

 with his wife, he was about to leave his door for 

 church. He turned back, and, hearing my quest, 



