A HUNT FOR THE NIGHTINGALE. 115 



across the country in summer, scarcely bigger than a 

 street watering-cart ; sometimes by getting over the 

 fence one can avoid them, but they keep the hay- 

 makers in a perpetual flurry. There is no cloud 

 scenery, as with us, no mass and solidity, no height 

 nor depth. The clouds seem low, vague, and va- 

 pory, immature, indefinite, inconsequential, like 

 youth. 



The walk to Selborne was through mist and light 

 rain. Few bird-voices, save the cry of the lapwing 

 and the curlew, were heard. Shortly after leaving 

 Liphook the road takes a straight cut for three or 

 four miles through a level, black, barren, peaty 

 stretch of country, with Wolmer Forest a short dis- 

 tance on the right. Under the low, hanging clouds 

 the scene was a dismal one a black earth beneath 

 and a gloomy sky above. For miles the only sign 

 of life was a baker's cart rattling along the smooth, 

 white road. At the end of this solitude I came to 

 cultivated fields, and a little hamlet and an inn. At 

 this inn (for a wonder !) I got some breakfast. The 

 family had not yet had theirs, and I sat with them 

 at the table, and had substantial fare. From this 

 point I followed a foot-path a couple of miles through 

 fields and parks. The highways for the most part 

 seemed so narrow and exclusive, or inclusive, such 

 penalties seemed to attach to a view over the high 

 walls and hedges that shut me in, that a foot-path 

 was always a welcome escape to me. I opened 

 the wicket or mounted the stile without much con- 



