110 A HUNT FOB THE NIGHTINGALE. 



I made my exit into a paved court, from which a 

 covered way led into the street. A man opened a 

 window and directed me how to undo the great door, 

 and forth I started, still hoping to catch my bird at 

 her matins. I took the route of the day before. On 

 the edge of the beautiful plowed field, looking down 

 through the trees and bushes into the gleam of the 

 river twenty rods below, I was arrested by the note 

 I longed to hear. It came up from near the water, 

 and made my ears tingle. I folded up my rubber 

 coat and sat down upon it, saying, Now we will tako 

 our fill. But the bird ceased, and, tarry though I 

 did for an hour, not another note reached me. The 

 prize seemed destined to elude me each time just as 

 I thought it mine. Still, I treasured what little I 

 had heard. 



It was enough to convince me of the superior qual- 

 ity of the song, and make me more desirous than ever 

 to hear the complete strain. I continued my rambles, 

 and in the early morning once more hung about the 

 Shackerford copses and loitered along the highways. 

 Two school-boys pointed out a tree to me in which 

 they had heard the nightingale, on their way for 

 milk, two hours before. But I could only repeat 

 Emerson's lines : 



" Right good will my sinews strung, 

 But no speed of mine avails 

 To hunt up their shining trails." 



At nine o'clock I gave over the pursuit and re 

 turned to Easing in quest of breakfast. Bringing 



