106 A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE. 



" It gets to be into the hevening," said my new 

 frieiid, " when she sings the most, you know." I 

 whiled away the time as best I could. If I had been 

 an artist, I should have brought away a sketch of a 

 picturesque old cottage near by, that bore the date 

 of 1688 on its wall. I was obliged to keep moving 

 most of the time to keep warm. Yet the " nosee- 

 *ems," or midges, annoyed me, in a temperature 

 which at home would have chilled them buzzless 

 and biteless. Finally, I leapt the smooth masonry 

 of the stone wall and ambushed myself amid the tall 

 ferns under a pine-tree, where the nightingale had 

 been heard in the morning. If the keeper had seen 

 me, he would probably have taken me for a poacher. 

 I sat shivering there till nine o'clock, listening to the 

 cooing of the wood-pigeons, watching the motions of 

 a jay that, I suspect, had a nest near by, and taking 

 note of various other birds. The song-thrush and 

 the robins soon made such a musical uproar along the 

 borders of a grove, across an adjoining field, as quite 

 put me out. It might veil and obscure the one voice 

 I wanted to hear. The robin continued to sing quite 

 into the darkness. This bird is related to the night- 

 ingale, and looks and acts like it at a little distance ; 

 and some of its notes are remarkably piercing and 

 musical. When my patience was about exhausted, I 

 was startled by a quick, brilliant call or whistle, a 

 few rods from me, that at once recalled my barber 

 with his blade of grass, and I knew my long-sought 

 bird was inflating her throat. How it woke me up J 



