88 FRESH FIELDS 



astonished at the strong, piercing quality of the 

 strain. It echoed in the woods and copses about, 

 but, though oft repeated, brought forth no response. 

 With this man I made an engagement to take a 

 walk that evening at eight o'clock along a certain 

 route where he had heard plenty of nightingales but 

 a few days before. He was confident he could call 

 them out; so was I. 



In the afternoon, which had gleams of warm 

 sunshine, I made another excursion, less in hopes 

 of hearing my bird than of finding some one who 

 could direct me to the right spot. Once I thought 

 the game was very near. I met a boy who told me 

 he had heard a nightingale only fifteen minutes 

 before, "on Polecat Hill, sir, just this side the 

 Devil's Punch-bowl, sir!" I had heard of his 

 majesty's punch-bowl before, and of the gibbets 

 near it where three murderers were executed nearly 

 a hundred years ago, but Polecat Hill was a new 

 name to me. The combination did not seem a 

 likely place for nightingales, but I walked rapidly 

 thitherward; I heard several warblers, but not 

 Philomel, and was forced to conclude that probably 

 I had crossed the sea to miss my bird by just fifteen 

 minutes. I met many other boys (is there any 

 country where boys do not prowl about in small 

 bands of a Sunday?) and advertised the object of 

 my search freely among them, offering a reward 

 that made their eyes glisten for the bird in song; 

 but nothing ever came of it. In my desperation, 

 I even presented a letter I had brought to the vil- 



