116 A HUNT FOB THE NIGHTINGALE. 



cern as to whether it would further me on my way 

 or not. It was like turning the flank of an en- 

 emy. These well-kept fields and lawns, these cozy 

 nooks, these stately and exclusive houses that had 

 taken such pains to shut out the public gaze from 

 the foot-path one had them at an advantage, and 

 could pluck out their mystery. On striking the high- 

 way again, I met the postmistress, stepping briskly 

 along with the morning mail. Her husband bad- 

 died, and she had taken his place as mail-carrier. 

 England is so densely populated, the country is so 

 like a great city suburb, that your mail is brought to 

 your door everywhere, the same as in town. I 

 walked a distance with a boy driving a little old 

 white horse with a cart-load of brick. He lived at 

 Hedleigh, six miles distant ; he had left there at five 

 o'clock in the morning, and had heard a nightingale. 

 He was sure ; as I pressed him, he described the 

 place minutely. " She was in the large fir-tree by 

 Tom Anthony's gate, at the south end of the village." 

 Then, I said, doubtless I shall find one in some of 

 Gilbert White's haunts ; but I did not. I spent two 

 rainy days at Selborne ; I passed many chilly and 

 cheerless hours loitering along those wet lanes arid 

 dells and dripping hangers, wooing both my bird and 

 the spirit of the gentle parson, but apparently with- 

 out getting very near to either. When I think of 

 the place now, I see its hurrying and anxious hay- 

 makers in the field of mown grass, and hear the cry 

 of a child that sat in the hay back of the old church, 



