A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE. 97 



volunteered to take me on a long walk through the 

 wet grass and bushes of his fields and copses, where 

 he knew the birds were wont to sing. Too " late," 

 he said, and so it did appear. He showed me a fine 

 old edition of White's <k Selborne," with notes by 

 some editor whose name I have forgotten. This 

 editor had extended White's date of June 15th to 

 July 1st, as the time to which the nightingale con- 

 tinues in song, and I felt like thanking him for it, as 

 it gave me renewed hope. The squire thought there 

 was a chance yet ; and in case my man with the 

 spear of grass behind his teeth failed me, he gave me 

 a card to an old naturalist and taxidermist at God- 

 aiming, a town nine miles above, who, he felt sure, 

 could put me on the right track if anybody could. 



At eight o'clock, the sun yet some distance above 

 the horizon, I was at the door of the barber in Hazle- 

 mere. He led the way along one of those delightful 

 foot-paths with which this country is threaded, ex- 

 tending to a neighboring village several miles distant. 

 It left the street at Hazlemere, cutting through the 

 houses diagonally, as if the brick walls had made 

 way for it, passed between gardens, through wickets, 

 over stiles, across the highway and railroad, through 

 cultivated fields and a gentleman's park, and on to- 

 ward its destination, a broad, well-kept path, that 

 seemed to have the same inevitable right of way as a 

 brook. I was told that it was repaired and looked 

 after the same as the highway. Indeed, it was a 

 public way, public to pedestrians only, and no man 

 7 



